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r^M^^jCJC^iCirjfi' 


LIBRARY 

OF  THE 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

GIFT  OF 

MRS.   MARY  WOLFSOHN 

IN    MEMORY   OF 

HENRY  WOLFSOHN 


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POETICAL   WORKS 


OF 


ELIZABETH  BARRETT  BROWNING. 


{COMPLETE) 


FROM   THE   TWELFTH    LONDON   EDITION. 


ILLUSTRATED, 


or  THE 


\^   r».        Of 


£5t 


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TROY,    N.Y. : 
NIMS     AND     KNIGHT. 


h*-«-»H 


I  ♦  ■  »'l 


COPYKIGHT  BY 

T.  Y.  CROWELL  &  CO., 
1882. 


JTrankUn  y«aa : 

RAND,  AVERT,  AND    COMPANY. 
BOSTON. 


\'d'd-2~ 


I     ^  I  ■  I  ^m    I 

i 


DEDICATION. 


TO     MY     FATHER. 

When  your  eyes  fall  upon  this  page  of  dedication,  and  you  start  to 
see  to  whom  it  is  inscribed,  your  first  thought  will  be  of  the  time,  far 
off,  when  I  was  a  child,  and  wrote  verses,  and  when  I  dedicated  them  to 
you,  who  were  my  public  and  my  critic.  Of  all  that  such  a  recollection 
implies  of  saddest  and  sweetest  to  both  of  us,  it  would  become  neither 
of  us  to  speak  before  the  world ;  nor  would  it  be  possible  for  us  to 
speak  of  it  to  one  another  with  voices  that  did  not  falter.  Enough, 
that  what  is  in  my  heart  when  I  write  thus  will  be  fully  known  to 
yours. 

And  my  desii-e  is,  that  you,  who  are  a  witness  how,  if  this  art  of  poetry 
had  been  a  less  earnest  object  to  me,  it  must  have  fallen  from  ex- 
hausted hands  before  this  day,  —  that  you,  who  have  shai-ed  with  me 
in  things  bitter  and  sweet,  softening  or  enhancing  them,  every  day,  — 
that  you,  who  hold  with  me,  over  all  sense  of  loss  and  transiency,  one 
hope  by  one  name,  —  may  accept  from  me  the  inscription  of  these  vol- 
umes, the  exponents  of  a  few  years  of  an  existence  which  has  been 
sustained  and  comforted  by  you,  as  well  as  given.  Somewhat  more 
faint-hearteil  than  I  used  to  be,  it  is  my  fancy  thus  to  seem  to  return 
to  a  visilile  personal  dependence  on  you,  as  if  indeed  I  were  a  child 
again;  to  conjure  your  beloved  image  between  myself  and  the  public, 
so  as  to  be  sure  of  one  smile ;  and  to  satisfy  my  heart,  while  I  sanctify 
my  ambition,  by  associating  with  the  great  jiursuit  of  my  life  its  ten- 
derest  and  holiest  affection. 

Your 

E.  B.  B. 
London,  50  "Wimpole  Street,  1844. 


ADYERTISEME^T. 


This  edition,  including  my  earlier  and  later  writings,  I  have  en- 
deavored to  render  as  little  unworthy  as  possible  of  tlie  indulgence  of 
the  public.  Several  poems  I  would  willingly  have  withdrawn,  if  it 
were  not  almost  impossible  to  extricate  what  has  been  once  caught  and 
involved  in  the  machinery  of  the  press.  The  alternative  is  a  request'  to 
the  generous  reader  that  he  may  use  the  weakness  of  those  earliei 
verses,  which  no  subsequent  revision  has  succeeded  in  strengthening, 
less  as  a  reproach  to  the  writer  than  as  a  means  of  marking  some  prog- 
ress in  lier  other  attempts. 

E.  B.  B. 

London,  1856. 

iv 


1 1  ■  <  ^m    I 


CONTENTS. 


Page 
AuBORA  Leigh:  — 

First  Book 1 

Second  Book t9 

Third  Book 40 

Fourtli  Book 60 

Fifth  Book 80 

Sixth  Book ,  .     .100 

Seventh  Book 121 

Eighth  Book 142 

Ninth  Book 103 

A  Drama  of  Exile 179 

The  Seraphim 212 

\Prometheus      bound.       From      the 

Greek  of  ^schylus   ....  22-5 
A  Lament   for  Adonis.    Froj(   the 

Greek  of  Bion 245 

A  Vision  of  Poets 247 

The  Poet's  Vow 261 

The  Romaunt  of  Margret    ....  268 

IsoBEL's  Child 271 

The  Romaunt  of  the  Page  ....  277 
The  Lay  of  the  Brown  Rosary  .  .  282 
A  Romance  op  the  Ganges  ....  290 
Rhyme  of  the  Duchess  May'  .  .  .  293 
The  Romance  of  the  Swan's  Ne?t  .  302 

Bertha  in  the  Lane 303 

Lady-  Geraldine's  Courtship  .  .  .  306 
The    Runaway'    Slave   at   1'ilgri.m's 

I'oint 317 

Vl'nt;   f'^y  mr   th^-   niTTTppp^v     ....   .321 

Jf  A  Child  asleep  .  ' 323 

The  Fourfold  Aspect 324 

KiGHT    AND   THE    MeRRY'   MaN  ....    326 

Earth  and  her  Praisers 327 

The    Virgin    Mary    to    the    Child 

Jesus 330 

An  Island .332 

The  Soul's  Travelling 335 

To  Bettine 338 

Man  and  Nature 339 

A  Seaside  AValk .339 

The  Sea-mew 340 

Felicia  Hemans 340 

L.  E.  L.'s  Last  Question 341. 

Crowned  and  wedded 342 

Crowned  and  buried 344 

To  Flush,  my  Dog 347 

The  Deserted  Garden .349 

My'  Doves 350 

Hector  in  the  Garden 351 

Sleeping  and  Watching 3.52 

Sounds    353 


Page 

Sonnets : — 

The  Soul's  Expression 355 

The  Seraph  and  Poet        355 

Bereavement 355 

Consolation 356 

To  Mary  Russell  Mitford.     In   her 

Garden 356 

On   a   Portrait  of  Wordsworth    by 

B.  R.  Haydon 356 

Past  and  Future 356 

Irreparableness 357 

Tears 357 

Grief .357 

,     Substitutioii 357 

Comfort 358 

Perplexed  Music .358 

\Vork 358 

Futurity 359 

The  Two  Sayings 3-59 

The  Look 359 

The  Meaning  of  the  Look  ....  3-59 
A  Thought  for  a  Lonely  Death-bed  .  360 
Work  and  Contemplation     ....  360 

Pain  in  Pleasure 360 

Fiiish  or  Faunus 360 

Finite  and  Infinite 361 

An  Apprehension 361 

Discontent 361 

Patience  taught  by  Nut  lire  ....  362 
Cheerfuhiess  taught  by  Reason     .     .  362 

Exaggeration 362 

Adequacy 362 

To  George  Sand.  A  Desire  .  .  .363 
To  George  Sand.     A  Recognition     .  363 

The  Prisoner 363 

Insufficiency 363 

Two  Sketches.     1 364 

Two  Sketches.     II 364 

Mountaineer  and  Poet 364 

The  Poet 364 

Hiram  Powers'  Greek  Slave     .     .     .  365 

Life 365 

Love 365 

Heaven  and  Earth 366 

The  Prospect 366 

Hugh  Stuart  Bovd.  His  Blindness.  366 
Hugh  Stuart  Boyd.  His  Death  .  .  367 
Hugh  Stuart  Boyd.     Legacies       .     .  367 

The  Lost  Bower 367 

A  Song  against  Singing 373 

Wine  of  Cy'prus 374 

A  Rhapsody'  of  Life's  Progress  .    .  876 

V 


VI 


CONTENTS. 


\-*-\\-*-{ 


Page 
A  Lay  of  the  Early  Rose  ....  379 
The  Po^t  anb  thk  Rtrd.     a  Fable.  381 

The  Ory'  of  the  Human 382 

A  Portrait 383 

Confessions 384 

Loved  once .■^gSB 

The  House  of  Clouds 387 

A  Sabbath  Morning  at  Sea      .    .     .  388 

A  Flower  in  a  Letter 389 

The  Mask .    .  391 

Calls  on  the  Heart 391 

Wisdom  Unapplied 393 

Memory-  and  Hope 394 

Human  Life's  Mystery 395 

A  Child's  Thought  of  God  ....  396 

The  Claim 396 

Song  of  the  Rose 396 

A  Dead  Rose 397 

The  Exile's  Return 397 

The  Sleep 398 

The  Measure 399 

Cowper's  Grave 399 

The  "Weakest  Thing 401 

The  Pet  Name 401 

The  Mourning  Mother 402 

A  Valediction 403 

Lessons  from  the  Goese      ....  404 

The  Lady''s  Yes 404 

A  Woman's  Shortcomings    ....  404 

A  Man's  Requirements 405 

A  Year's  Spinning 406 

Change  upon  Change    406 

That  Day 407 

A  Reed 407 

The  Dead  Pan 408 

A  "Child's  Grave  at  Florence      .     .  411 

CatarinjV  to  Camoens 413 

Life  and  Love 415 

A  Denial 415 

Proof  and  Disproof 416 

Question  and  Answer 417 

Inclusions 417 

^  Insufficiency 417 

■■•■  Sonnets  from  the  Portuguese    .     .  418 

\    Casa  Guidi  Windows 429 

l^J'oEMS  before  Congress:  — 

Naijoleon  III.  in  Italy 463 

The  Dance 467 

A  Tale  of  Villafranca 469 

A  Court  Lady 470 

An  August  Voice 471 

Christmas  Gifts 473 

Italy  and  the  World 473 

A  Curse  for  a  Nation 476 

JjAst  Poems:  — 

Little  Mattie 478 

A  False  Step 479 

Void  in  Law 479 


493 
495 


Page 
Last  Poems  :  — 

Lord  Walter's  Wife 480 

Bianca  among  the  Nightingales    .     .  482 

My  Kate 484 

A  Song  for  the   Ragged-Schools  of 

London 485 

May's  Love 487 

Amy's  Cruelty     .........  487 

My  Heart  and  I 488 

The  Best  Thing  in  the  World  .     .     .489 

Where's  Agnes  ? 4S9 

XDe  Profundis 490 

A  Musical  Instrument 492 

F'irsl  i\ews  irom  Villafranca    .     .     .  493 
.-■'^ing  Victor  Emanuel  entering  Flor- 
ence, April,  1860 

The  Sword  of  Castruccio  Castracani 

Summing  up  in  Italy 495 

"  Died  ..." 497 

The  Forced  Recruit 497 

Garibaldi 498 

Only  a  Curl 499 

A  View  across  the  Roman  Campagna  500 

The  King's  Gift 501 

Parting  Lovers 501 

Mother  and  Poet 502 

Nature's  Remorses 504 

The  North  and  the  South     ....  506 
Translations  :  — 

From  Theocritus:  — 

The  Cyclops 507 

XFrom  Apuleius  :  — 

Psyche  gazing  on  Cupid   .     . 

Psyche  wafted  by  Zephyrus 

Psyche  and  I'an 

Psyche  propitiating  Ceres     . 

Psyche  and  the  Eagle  .     .     . 

Psyche  and  Cerberus     .     .     . 

Psyche  and  Proserpine      .     . 

Psyche  and  Venus    .... 

Mercury  carries  Psyche  to  Olym- 
pus   512 

Marriage  of  Psyche  and  Cupid      .  512 
From  Noun  us  :  — 

How  Bacchus  finds  Ariadne  sleep- 
ing     513 

How  Bacchus  comforts  Ariadne    .  514 
From  Hesiod :  — 

Bacchus  and  A  riadne 515 

From  Euripides :  — 

Aurora  and  Tithonus 515 

From  Homer :  — 

Hector  and  Andromache  ....  516 

The  Daughters  of  Pandarus      .     .  518 

Another  Version 518 

From  Anacreon  :  — 

Ode  to  the  Swallow 518 

From  Heine 519 


509 
509 
510 
510 
511 
512 
512 
512 


v 


J^ 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


A     POEM     IN     NINE     BOOKS 


Dedication  to  John  Ken  von,  Esq. 


The  words  "  cousin  "  and  "  friend  "  are  constantly  recurring  in  this  poem, 
the  last  pages  of  which  have  been  finished  under  the  hosjiitality  of  your  roof, 
my  own  dearest  cousin  and  friend,  —  cousin  and  friend  in  a  sense  of  less 
equality  and  greater  disinterestedness  than  "  Romney's." 

Ending,  therefore,  and  preparing  once  more  to  quit  England,  I  venture  to 
leave  in  your  hands  this  book,  the  most  mature  of  my  works,  and  the  one 
into  which  my  highest  convictions  upon  life  and  art  have  entered;  that  as, 
through  my  A^arious  efforts  in  literature,  and  steps  in  life,  you  have  believed 
in  me,  borne  with  me,  and  been  generous  to  me,  far  beyond  the  common 
uses  of  mere  relationship  or  sympathy  of  mind,  so  you  may  kindly  accept  in 
sight  of  the  public  this  poor  sign  of  esteem,  gratitude,  and  affection  from 


Your  unforgetting 


39  Devonshire  Place, 
Oct.  17, 1856. 


E.   B.   B. 


AURORA    LEIGH, 


FIRST    BOOK. 

Of  writing  many  books  there   is  no 

end  ; 
And  I,  who  have  written  much  in 

prose  and  verse 
For  others'  tases,  will  write  now  for 

mine, — 
Will   write  my   story  for  my   better 

self. 
As  when  you  jiaint  your  portrait  for  a 

friend, 
Who  keeps  it  in  a  drawer,  and  looks 

at  it 


Long  after  he  has  ceased  to  love  you, 

just 
To  hold  together  what  he  was  and  is. 

I,  writing  tlms,  am  still  what  men  call 

young  : 
I  have  not  so  far  left  the  coasts  of  life 
To  travel  inland,  that  I  cannot  hear 
That  murmiir  of  the  outer  Infinite 
Which  unweaned  babies  smile  at  in 

their  sleep 
When  wondered  at  for  smiling  ;  not 

so  far. 
But  still  I  catch  my  mother  at  her 

jiost 

1 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Beside  the  nursery-door,  with  finger 

np, 
"  Hush,  hush,  here's  too  mucli  noise  ! " 

while  her  sweet  eyes 
Leap  forward,  taking  part  against  her 

word 
In  the  chikl's  riot.    Still  I  sit,  and  feel 
My  father's  slow  hand,  ^hen  she  had 

left  us  both, 
Stroke  out   my  childish  curls  across 

his  knee. 
And  hear  Assunta's  daily  jest  (she 

knew 
He  liked  it  better  than  a  better  jest) 
Inquire  how  many  golden  scudi  went 
To  make  such  ringlets.    O  my  father's 

hand, 
Stroke  heavily,  heavily,  the  poor  hair 

down. 
Draw,  press  the  child's  head  closer  to 

thy  knee ! 
I'm  still  too  young,  too  young,  to  sit 

alone. 

I  write.    My  mother  was  a  Florentine, 
Whose  rare  blue  eyes  were  shut  from 

seeing  me 
When  scarcely  I  was  four  years  old  ; 

my  life 
A  poor  spark  snatched  up  from  a  fail- 
ing lamp 
AVhich  went  out  therefore.     She  was 

weak  and  frail ; 
She  could  not  bear  the  joy  of  giving 

life  ; 
The  mother's  rapture  slew  her.   If  her 

kiss 
Had  left  a  longer  weight  upon  my  lijis. 
It  might    have  steadied  the  uneasy 

breath. 
And  reconciled  and  fraternized  my 

soul 
AYith  the  new  order.    As  it  was,  in- 
deed, 
I  felt  a  mother-want  about  the  world. 
And  still  went  seeking,  like  a  bleating 

lamb 
Left  out  at  night  in  shutting  up  the 

fold, — 
As  restless  as  a  nest-deserted  bird 
Grown  chill  through  something  being 

away,  though  what 
It  knows  not.    I,  Aurora  Leigh,  was 

born 
To  make  njy  father  sadder,  and  mv- 

self 
Not  overjoyous,  truly.    Women  know 
The  way  to  rear  up  children  (to  be 

just)  ; 


They  know  a  simple,  merry,  tender 

knack 
Of  tying  sashes,  fitting  baby-shoes. 
And  stringing  jn-etty  words" that  make 

no  sense. 
And   kissing  full    sense   into  empty 

words  ; 
Which  things   are  corals  to  cut  life 

upon. 
Although  such  trifles  :  children  learn 

by  such. 
Love's  holy  earnest  in  a  pretty  play, 
And  get  not  over-early  solemnized. 
But  seeing,  as  in  a  ro'se-bush.  Love's 

Divine, 
Which  burns  and  hurts  not,— not  a 

single  bloom,  — 
Become  aware  and  unafraid  of  love. 
Such  good  do  mothers.    Fathers  love 

as  well,  — 
Mine  did,   I  know,  —  but  still  with 

heavier  brains. 
And  wills  more  consciously  responsi- 
ble. 
And  not  as  wiselj^  sintse  less  foolishly: 
So  mothers  have  God's  license  to  be 

missed. 

My  father  was  an  austere  Englishman, 

Who,  after  a  dry  lifetime  spent  at 
home 

In  college-learning,  law,  and  i:)arish 
talk, 

Was  flooded  with  a  passion  unaware, 

His  whole  provisioned  and  compla- 
cent iiast 

Drowned  out  from  him  that  moment. 
As  he  stood 

In  Florence,  where  lie  had  come  to 
spend  a  month. 

And  note  the  secret  of  Da  Vinci's 
drains, 

He  musing  somewhat  absently  per- 
haps 

Some  English  question  .  .  .  whether 
men  should  pay 

The  unpopular  but  necessary  tax 

With  left  or  right  hand  —  in  the  alien 
sun 

In  that  great  square  of  the  Santissinia 

There  drifted  past  him  (scarcely 
marked  enough 

To  move  his  comfortable  island  scorn) 

A  train  of  priestly  banners,  cross  and 
psalm. 

The  white-veiled,  rose-crowned  maid- 
ens holding  up 

Tall  tapers,  weighty  for  such  wrists, 
aslant 


'  I,  a  little  child,  would  crouch 
For  hours  upon  the  floor,  with  knees  drawn  up, 
And  gaze  across  them,  half  in  terror,  half 
In  adoration  at  the  picture." —Page  3. 


] 


AURORA     LEIGH. 


3 


To  the  blue  luminous  tremor  of  the 

air, 
Aucl  letting  drop  the  white  wax  as 

they  went 
To   eat    the    bishop's    wafer    at    the 

church ; 
From  which   long  trail  of  chanting 

l^riests  and  girls 
A  face  flashed  like  a  cymbal  on  his 

face, 
And  shook  with  silent  clangor  brain 

and  heart, 
Transfiguring  him  to  music.    Thus, 

even  thus, 
He,  too,  received  his  sacramental  gift 
With  eucharistic    meanings;    for  he 

loved. 

And  thus   beloved,   she   died.     I've 

heard  it  said 
That  but  to  see  him,  in  the  first  sur- 
prise 
Of  widower  and  father,  nursing  me, 
Unmothered  little  cliild  of  four  vears 

old,  — 
His  large  man's  hands  afraid  to  totxch 

my  curls. 
As  if    the    gold  would    tarnish,    his 

grave  lips 
Contriving  such  a  miserable  smile 
As    if    he    knew    needs  must,   or   I 

should  die. 
And  yet  'twas  hard, — would  almost 

"make  the  stones 
Cry  out  for  pity.    There's  a  verse  he 

set 
In  Santa  Croce  to  her  memory,  — 
"  Weep  for  an  infant  too  young  to 

weep  much 
When  death  removed  this  mother," — 

stops  the  mirth 
To-day  on  women's  faces  when  they 

walk, 
With  rosy  children  hanging  on  their 

gowns. 
Under  the  cloister  to  escape  the  sun 
That  scorches  in  the  piazza.    After 

which 
He  left  our  Florence,  and  made  haste 

to  hide 
Himself,  his  prattling  child,  and  silent 

grief, 
Among  the  mountains  above  Pelago; 
Because      unmothered      babes,      he 

thought,  had  need 
Of  mother-nature  more  than  others 

use. 
And  Pan's  Avhite  goats,  with  udders 

warm,  and  full 


Of  mystic   contemplations,   come   to 

feed 
Poor  milkless  lips  of  orphans  like  his 

own. 
Such  scholar-scraps  he  talked,  I've 

heard  from  friends; 
For  even  i^rosaic  men  who  wear  gr'-ef 

long 
Will  get  to  wear  it  as  a  hat  aside 
With    a  flower    stuck  in't.     Father, 

then,  and  child. 
We  lived  among  the  mountains  many 

years, 
God's  silence  on  the  outside  of  the 

house. 
And  we  who  did  not  speak  too  loud 

within, 
And  old  Assunta  to  make  up  the  fire. 
Crossing  herself  whene'er  a  sudden 

flame 
Which   lightened  from  the  firewood 

made  alive 
That  picture   of  my  mother  on  the 

wall. 

The   painter  drew  it  after  she   was 

dead ; 
And   when    the    face    was    finished, 

throat  and  hands. 
Her  cameriera  carried  him,  in  hate 
Of  the  English-fashioned  shroud,  the 

last  brocade 
She  dressed  in  at  the   Pitti.      "  He 

should  paint 
No    sadder    thing    than    that,"    she 

swore,  "  to  wrong 
Her  poor  signora."     Therefore  very 

strange 
The    effect    was.     I,    a    little    child, 

would  crouch 
For  hours  upon  the  floor,  with  knees 

drawn  up, 
And  gaze  across  them,  half  in  terror, 

half 
In  adoration,  at  the  picture  there, — 
That  swan-like    supernatural    white 

life 
Just  sailing  upward  from  the  red  stiff 

silk 
Which  seemed  to  have  no  part  in  it, 

nor  power 
To  keep  it  from  quite  breaking  out 

of  bounds.  * 

For  hours  I  sate  and  stared.    Assun- 

ta's  awe 
And    my   poor    father's   melancholy 

eyes 
Still   pointed   that   way.     That  way 

went  my  thoughts 


i 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


When  wandering  beyond  sight.    And 

as  I  gr«w 
In  years,  I  mixed,  confused,  nncon- 

scionsl>-, 
Whaterer   I   last   read,  or   heard,  or 

<lreamed,  — 
AhbOrrent,  admirable,  heantifnl, 
P^flietical,  or  ghastly,  or  grotesque,  — 
>^ith  still  that   face  .  .  .  which   did 

not  therefore  change. 
But    kept    the    mystic    level    of    all 

forms, 
Hates,  fears,  and   admirations  —  was 

by  turns 
Ghost,  "fiend,  and  angel,  fairy,  witch, 

and  sprite; 
A  dauntless  Muse  who  eyes  a  dread- 
ful Fate; 
A  loving  Psyche  who  loses  sight  of 

Love ; 
A    still    ISIedusa    with     mild     milky 

brows, 
All  curdled  and  all  clothed  upon  with 

snakes 
Whose  slime  falls  fast  as  sweat  will; 

or  anon 
Our  Lady   of    the    Passion,   stabbed 

with  swords 
Where  the  Babe  sucked;  or  Lamia  in 

her  first 
Moonlighted   ]iallor,  ere   she   shrunk 

and  blinked, 
And    shuddering  wriggled    down   to 

the  unclean; 
Or  my  own  mother,  leaving  her  last 

smile 
In  her  last  kiss  upon  the  baby-mouth 
My  father  pushed  down  on   the   bed 

for  that ; 
Or  my  dead  mother,  without  smile  or 

kiss. 
Buried  at   Florence.     All  which    im- 
ages. 
Concentred    on   the   picture,   glassed 

themselves 
Before  my  meditative  childhood,  as 
The    incoherencies    of    change    and 

death 
Are    represented    fully,    mixed    and 

merged. 
In  the  smooth  fair  mystery  of  perpet- 
ual life. 

And  while  I  stared  away  my  childish 

wits 
Upon  my  mother's  picture,  (ah,  poor 

child!) 
My  father,  who    through    love    had 

suddenly 


Thrown     off    the     old    conventions, 
broken  loose 

From   chin-bands    of    the    soul,    like 
Lazarus, 

Yet  had  no  time  to  learn  to  talk  and 
walk. 

Or    grow    anew    familiar    with    the 
sun ; 

Who  had  reached  to  freedom,  not  to 
action,  lived, 

But    lived    as    one    entranced,    with 
thoughts,  not  aims; 

Whom  love  had  unmade  from  a  com- 
mon njan, 

But  not  completed  to  an  uncommon 
man,  — 

My  father  taught  me  what  he  had 
learnt  the  best 

Before   he   ilied,  and  left  me,  — grief 
and  love. 

And  seeing  we  had  books  among  the 
hills. 

Strong    words    of    counselling    souls 
confederate 

With  vocal  j)ines  and  waters,  out  of 
books 

He   taught  me  all   the   ignorance  of 
men, 

And  how  God  laughs  in  heaven  when 
any  man 

Says,  "Here-I"m  learned;  this  I  un- 
derstand; 

In  that  I  am  ncA^er  caught  at  fault  or 
doubt." 

He  sent  the  schools  to  school,  demon- 
strating 

A  fool  will  pass  for  such  through  one 
mistake, 

AVhile    a    iihilosopher    will    pass   for 
such 

Through    said    mistakes    being   ven- 
tured in  the  gross, 

And  heaped  iip  to  a  sy.stem. 

I  am  like. 

They  tell  me,  my  dear  father.    Broad- 
er brows 

Howbeit,    upon    a    slenderer    under- 
growth 

Of  delicate  features, — imler,  near  as 
grave ; 

But   then   my  mother's  smile  breaks 
up  the  whole, 

And  makes  it  better  sometimes  than 
itself. 

So  nine  full  years  our  days  were  hid 

with  God 
Among  his  mountains.     I  was  just 

thirteen, 


AURORA    LEIGH. 


Still  growing  like  the  plants  from  \\n- 

seen  roots 
In  tongue-tied  springs,  and  suddenly 

awoke 
To  full  life  and  life's  needs  and  ago- 
nies, 
With  an  intense,    strong,  struggling 

heart,  beside 
A    stone-dead    father.      Life,    struck 

sharp  on  death. 
Makes    awful    lightning.      His     last 

word  was,  "  Love  — 
Love,  my  child,  love,  love!  " — (then 

he  had  done  with  grief) 
"  Love,  my  child."     Ere  I  answered, 

he  was  gone. 
And  none  was  left  to  love  in  all  the 

world. 

There  ended  childhood.     What  suc- 
ceeded next 
I  recollect,  as,  after  fevers,  men 
Thread  back  the  passage  of  delirium, 
Missing  the  turn  still,  bafHed  by  the 

door ; 
Smooth,  endless  days,  notched  here 

and  there  with  knives, 
A  weary,  wormy  darkness,  spurred 

i'  the  flank 
With  flame,  that  it  should  eat  and  end 

itself 
Like  some  tormented  scorjiion.     Then 

at  last 
I    do    remember    clearly   how    there 

came 
A  stranger  with  authority,  not  right 
(I    thought    not),    who    commanded, 

caught  me  up 
From  old  Assunta's  neck;  how  with 

a  shriek 
She  let  me  go,  while  I,  with  ears  too 

full 
Of  my  father's  silence  to  shriek  back 

a  word. 
In    all    a    child's    astonishment    at 

grief. 
Stared  at  the  wharf-edge  where  she 

stood  and  moaned. 
My  poor  Assunta,   where  she  stood 

and  moaned! 
The  white  walls,  the  blue  hills,  my 

Italy, 
Drawn  backward  from  the  shudder- 
ing steamer-deck, 
Like  one  in  anger  drawing  back  her 

skirts 
Which  suppliants  catch  at.    Then  the 

bitter  sea 
Inexorably  pushed  between  us  both. 


And,  sweeping  up  the  ship  with  my 

despair. 
Threw  us    out  as  a  pasture    to  the 

stars. 

Ten  nights  and  days  we  voyaged  on 

the  deep; 
Ten  nights  and  days  without  the  com- 
mon face 
Of  any  day  or  night;    the  moon  and 

sun 
Cut   off    from   the  green  reconciling 

earth , 
To  starve  into  a  blind  ferocity, 
And  glare  unnatural ;  the  very  sky 
(Dropping  its  bell-net  down  upon  the 

sea 
As  if  no  human  heart  should  'scape 

alive). 
Bedraggled  with  the  desolating  salt. 
Until  it  seemed  no  more  that  holy 

heaven 
To  which  my  father  went.     All  new 

and  strange; 
The   universe  turned  stranger,  for  a 

child. 

Then   land!  —  then  England!  oh,  the 

frosty  cliffs 
Looked  cold  upon  me.     Could  I  find 

a  home 
Among  those  mean  red  liouses  through 

the  fog  ? 
And  when  I  heard   ujy  father's  lan- 
guage first 
From  alien  lips  which  had  no  kiss  for 

mine, 
I   wept    alovid,    then    laughed,    then 

wept,  then  wept; 
And  some  one  near  me  said  the  child 

was  mad 
Through     much     sea-sickness.      The 

train  swept  us  on. 
Was   this  my  father's  England  ?   the 

great  isle  ? 
The  ground  seemed  cut  up  from  the 

fellowship 
Of  verdure,  field  from  field,  as  man 

from  man: 
The  skies  themselves  looked  low  and 

positive, 
As  almost  you  could  touch  them  with 

a  hand. 
And  dared  to  do  it,  they  were  so  far 

off 
From    God's    celestial    crystals;    all 

things  blurred 
And  dull  and  vague.     Did  Shakspeare 

and  his  mates 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Absorb  the  light  here  ?    Not  a  hill  or 

stone 
With  heart  to  strike  a  radiant  color 

up, 
Or  active   outline  on  the  indifferent 

air. 

I  think  I  see  my  father's  sister  stand 

Upon  the  hall-step  of    her  country- 
house 

To    give    me    welcome.      She    stood 
straight  and  calm, 

Her  somewhat  narrow  forehead  braid- 
ed tight 

As  if  for  taming  accidental  thoughts 

From    possible    pulses;    brown    hair 
l>ricked  with  gray 

By  frigid  use  of  life  (she  was  not  old, 

Although    my   father's    elder   by    a 
year); 

A  nose  drawn  sharply,  yet  in  delicate 
lines; 

A  close  mild  mouth,  a  little  soured 
about 

The  ends,  through  speaking  unrequit- 
ed loves 

Or,     peradventure,    niggardly     half- 
truths  ; 

Eyes  of  no  color  —  once  they  might 
have  shoiled, 

But  never,  never,  have  forgot  them- 
selves 

In  smiling;  cheeks  in  which  was  yet 
a  rose 

Of  perished  summers,  like  a  rose  in  a 
book. 

Kept  more  for  ruth  than  pleasure  — 
if  past  bloom. 

Past  fading  also. 

She  liad  lived,  we'll  say, 

A  harmless  life,  she  called  a  virtuous 
life, 

A  quiet  life,  which  was  not  life  at  all 

(But  that,  she  had  not  lived  enough 
to  know), 

Between  the  vicar  and    the    county 
squires. 

The    lord-lieutenant     looking    down 
sometimes 

From  the  empyrean  to  assure  their 
soi;ls 

Against   chance   vulgarisms,   and,  in 
the  abyss. 

The  apothecary  looked  on  once  a  year 

To  prove  their  soundness  of  luiniility. 

The  poor-club  exercised  her  Christian 
gifts 

Of  knitting  stockings,  stitching  petti- 
coats, 


Because  we  are  of  on*  flesh,  after  all, 
And  ueed  one  flannel  (with  a  proper 

sense 
Of    difference    in    the    quality);    and 

still 
The    book-club,  guarded    from  your 

modern  trick 
Of  shaking  dangerous  questions  from 

the  crease, 
Preserved  her  intellectual.     She  had 

lived 
A  sort  of   cage-bird  life,   born  in  a 

cage, 
Accounting  that  to  leap  from  perch  to 

perch 
AYas  act  and  joy  enoiigh  for  any  bird. 
Dear  Heaven,  how  silly  are  the  things 

that  live 
In  thickets,  and  eat  berries! 

I,  alas ! 
A  wild    bird    scarcely    fledged,   was 

brought  to  her  cage. 
And  she  was  there  to  meet  me.    Very 

kind. 
Bring  the  clean  water,  give  out  the 

fresh  seed. 

She  stood  upon  the  stejis  to  welcome 

me. 
Calm,  in  black  garb.    I  clung  about 

her  neck : 
Yoiang    babes,    who    catch    at    every 

shred  of  wool 
To  draw  the  new  light  closer,  catch 

and  cling 
Less  blindly.    In  my  ears  my  father's 

word 
Hummed    ignorantly,   as  the  sea  in 

shells,  — 
"  Love,  love,  my  child."     She,  black 

there  with  my  grief. 
Might  feel  my  love:  she  was  his  sis- 
ter once. 
I  clung  to  her.    A  moment  she  Beemed 

moved, 
Kissed  me  with  cold  lips,  suffered  me 

to  cling. 
And  drew  me  feebly  through  the  hall 

into 
The   room   she  sate  in.     There,  with 

some  strange  spasm 
Of  pain  and  passion,  slie  wrung  loose 

my  hands 
Imperiously,  and  held   me   at  arm's- 

lengtli, 
And  with  two  gray-steel  naked-bladed 

eyes 
Searched     through     my    face,  —  ay, 

stabbed  it  through  and  through. 


-J^ 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Through  hrows  and  cheeks  and  chin, 

as  if  to  find 
A  wicked   murderer   in  my  innocent 

face, 
If    not    here,   there    perhaps.    Then, 

drawing  breath. 
She  struggled  for  lier  ordinary  calm, 
And  missed  it  rather ;  told  me  not  to 

shrink. 
As  if  she   had   told  me  not  to  lie  or 

swear, 
"  She  loved  my  father,  and  would  love 

me  too 
As    long    as    I    deserved    it."    Very 

kind. 

I  understood  her  meaning  afterward: 
She  thought  to  find  my  mother  in  my 

face, 
And  questioned  it  for  that.     For  she, 

my  aunt, 
Had  loved   my  father  truly,  as  she 

could. 
And  hated  with   the  gall  of    gentle 

souls 
My  Tuscan  mother,  who  had  fooled 

awaj' 
A  wise  man  from  wise  courses,  a  good 

man 
From  obvious  duties,  and  depriving 

her, 
His  sister,   of    the  household  prece- 
dence, 
Had  wronged  his  tenants,  robbed  his 

native  land. 
And  made  him  mad,  alike  by  life  and 

death, 
In  love  and  sorrow.     She  had  pored 

for  years 
What  sort  of  woman  Could  be  suitable 
To  her  sort  of  hate,  to  entertain  it 

with. 
And  so  her  very  curiosity 
Became  hate  too,  and  all  the  idealism 
She  ever  used  in  life  was  used  for 

hate. 
Till  hate,  so  nourished,  did  exceed  at 

last 
The    love    from    which    it    grew    in 

strength  and  heat, 
And  wrinkled  her  smooth  conscience 

with  a  sense 
Of  disputable  virtue  (say  not  sin) 
When  Christian  doctrine  was  enforced 

at  church. 

And  thus  my  father's  sister  was  to  me 
My  mother's  hater.     From   that  day 
she  did 


Her  duty  to  me  (I  appreciate  it 

In  her  own  word  as  spoken  to  herself). 

Her    duty    in    large    measure,    well 

pressed  out. 
But  measured  always.     She  was  gen- 
erous, bland. 
More  courteous  than  was  tender,  gave 

me  still 
The    first    place,    as    if    fearful    that 

God's  saints 
"Would  look  down  suddenly  and  say, 

"  Herein 
You  missed  a  jioint,  I  think,  through 

lack  of  love." 
Alas !  a  mother  never  is  afraid 
Of  speaking  angrily  to  any  child, 
Since  love,  she  knows,  is  justified  of 

love. 

And  I  —  I  was  a  good  child,  on  the 
whole, 

A  meek  and  manageable  child.    Why 
not? 

I  did  not  live  to  have  the  faults  of 
life. 

There  seemed  more  true   life  in  my 
father's  grave 

Than    in    all    England.     Since    that 
threw  me  off 

Who    fain  would   cleave   (his    latest 
will,  they  say, 

Consigned  me   to   his   land),    I   only 
thought 

Of    lying  quiet  there,   where  I  was 
thrown 

Like  seaweed  on  the  rocks,  and  suf- 
fering her 

To  prick  me  to  a  pattern  with  her  pin, 

Fibre  from  fibre,  delicate  leaf  from 
leaf. 

And  dry  oiit  from  my  drowned  anat- 
omy 

The  last  sea-salt  left  in  me. 

'  So  it  was. 

I  broke   the   copious   curls   upon  my 
lie  ad 

In  braids,  because  she  liked  smooth- 
ordered  hair. 

I   left   off    saying  my   sweet   Tuscan 
words 

Which    still    at    any   stirring    of   the 
heart 

Came  up  to  float  across  the  English 
phrase 

As  lilies  {Bene  or  Che  che),  because 

She  liked  my  father's  child  to  speak 
his  tongue. 

I    learnt    the    collects    and  the   cate- 
chism, 


! 


8 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


The  creeds,  from  Athanasius  back  to 

Nice, 
The  Articles,  the  Tracts  against  the 

times 
(By  no  means  Buouaventure's  "  Prick 

of  Love"), 
And  various  popular  synopses  of 
Inhuman  doctrines  never  taught  by 

John, 
Because  she  liked  instructed  pietJ^ 
I   learnt   my  comi^lement  of   classic 

French 
(Kept  pure  of  Balzac  and  neologism) 
And  German  also,  since  she  liked  a 

range 
Of  liberal  education, — tongues,   not 

books. 
I  learnt  a  little  algebra,  a  little 
Of    the    mathematics,   brushed  with 

extreme  Hounce 
The  circle  of  the  sciences,  because 
She   misliked  women  who  are  frivo- 
lous. 
I  learnt  the  royal  genealogies 
Of  Oviedo,  the  internal  laws 
Of  the  Burmese  Empire,  by  how  many 

feet 
Mount    Chimborazo    outsoars    Tene- 

rifife, 
What  navigable  river  joins  itself 
To  Lara,  and  what  census  of  the  year 

five 
"Was  taken  atKlagenfurt,  because  she 

liked 
A  gen-eral  insight  into  useful  facts. 
I  learnt  much  music,  such  as  would 

have  been 
As  quite  impossible  in  Johnson's  day 
As    still    it    might    be    wished,    fine 

sleights  of  hand 
And  unimagined  fingering,  shuflSiug 

off 
The  hearer's  soul  through  hurricanes 

of  notes 
To  a  noisy  Tophet ;  and  I  drew  .  .  . 

costumes 
From     French    engravings,     nereids 

neatly  draped 
(With  smirks  of  simmering  godship). 

I  washed  in 
Landscapes  from  nature  (rather  saj-, 

washed  out). 
I  danced  the  polka  and  Cellariiis, 
Spun  glass,  stuffed   birds,  and  mod- 
elled flowers  in  wax. 
Because  she  liked   accomplishments 

in  girls. 
I  read  a  score  of  books  on  woman- 
hood, 


To  prove,  if  women  do  not  think  at 

all, 
They    may     teach     thinking    (to    a 

maiden-aunt, 
Or    else    the    author),  —  books    that 

boldly  assert 
Their  right  of    comprehending    hus- 
band's talk 
When  not  too  deep,  and  even  of  an- 
swering 
With  jiretty  "may  it  please  you,"  or 

"  so  it  is;  " 
Their  rapid  insight  and  fine  aptitxide. 
Particular  worth  and  general  mission- 

ariness. 
As  long  as  they  keep  quiet  by  the  fire, 
And  never  say  "  no  "  when  the  world 

says  "  aj'," 
For  that  is  fatal;  their  angelic  reach 
Of  virtue,  chiefly  used  to  sit  and  darn. 
And  fatten  household  sinners;  their, 

in  brief. 
Potential  faculty  in  every  thing 
Of  abdicating  power  in  it:  she  owned 
She  liked  a  woman  to  be  womanly. 
And    English    women,  she    thanked 

God,  and  sighed 
(Some  people  always  sigh  in  thanking 

God), 
Were   models  to  the  universe.     And 

last 
I  learnt  cross-stitch,  because  she  did 

not  like 
To  see  me  wear  the  night  with  empty 

hands, 
A-doing  nothing.     So  my  shepherdess 
Was  something,  after  all  (the  jiastoral 

saints 
Be    praised    for't),   leaning  lovelorn, 

witli  pink  eyes 
To  match  her  shoes,  when  I  mistook 

the  silks. 
Her  head   uncrushed   by  that  round 

weight  of  hat 
So  strangelv  similar  to  the  tortoise- 
shell  " 
Which  slew  the  tragic  poet. 

By  the  way. 
The  works  of  women  are  .symbolical. 
We  sew,  sew,  prick  our  fingers,  dull 

our  sight, 
Producing  what  ?    A  jiair  of  slippers, 

sir, 
To   put   on  when  you're  weary,  or  a 

stool 
To  stumble  over,  and  vex  vou  .  .  . 

"  Curse  that  stool !  " 
Or  else,  at  best,  a  cushion,  where  you 

lean 


I 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


And  sleep,  and  dr^m  of  something 
we  are  not, 

But  would   be  for  your  sake.    Alas, 
alas  ! 

This  hurts  most,  this,  —  that  after  all 
we  are  paid 

The  worth  of  our  work,  perhaps. 

In  looking  down 

Those  years  of  education  (to  return) 

I  wonder  if  Brinvilliers  suffered  more 

In  the  water-torture  .  .  .  flood    suc- 
ceeding flood 

To  drench  the  incapable  throat,  and 
split  the  veins  .  .  . 

Thau  I  did.     Certain  of  your  feel)ler 
souls 

Go  out  in  such  a  process;  many  pine 

To  a  sick,  inodorous  light;  my  own 
endured: 

I  had  relations  in  the  Unseen,  and 
drew 

The  elemental  nutriment  and  heat 

From   nature,  as  earth  feels  the  sun 
at  nights. 

Or  as  a  babe  sucks  surely  in  the  dark 

I  kept  the  life  thrust  on  me,  on  the 
outside 

Of  the  inner  life,  with  all  its  ample 
room 

For  heart  and  lungs,  for  will  and  in- 
tellect. 

Inviolable  by  conventions.     God, 

I  thank  thee  for  that  grace  of  thine  ! 

At  first 

I  felt  no  life  which  was  not  patience; 
did 

The  thing  she  bade  me,  without  heed 
to  a  thing 

Beyond  it;  sate  in  just  the  chair  she 
placed, 

"With  back  against  the  window,  to  ex- 
clude 

The  sight  of  the  great  lime-tree  on 
the  lawn. 

Which  seemed  to  have  come  on  pur- 
pose from  the  woods 

To  bring  the  house  a  message,  —  ay, 
and  walked 

Demurely  in  her  carpeted  low  rooms, 

As  if  I  should  not,  barkening  my  own 
steps, 

Misdoubt  I  was  alive.     I  read    her 
books; 

"Was    civil    to    her    cousin,    Romney 
Leigh; 

Gave  ear  to  her  vicar,  tea  to  her  visit- 
ors, 

And    heard    them   whisper,   when   I 
changed  a  cup 


(I  blushed  for  joy  at  that), —  "The 

Italian  child. 
For  all  her  blue  eyes  and  her  quiet 

ways. 
Thrives  ill  in  England.     She  is  paler 

yet 
Than  when  we  came  the  last  time: 

she  will  die."  , 

"  "Will  die."   My  cousin  Romney  Leigh 

blushed  too, 
"With  sudden  anger,  and  approaching 

me. 
Said  low  between  his  teeth,  "You're 

wicked  now  ! 
You  wish  to  die  and  leaA'e  the  world 

a-dusk 
For  others,  with  your  naughty  light 

blown  out  ?  ' ' 
I  looked  into  his  face  defyingly. 
He  might  have  known,  that,   being 

what  I  was, 
'Twas  natural  to  like  to  get  away 
As  far  as  dead  folk  can;  and  then,  in- 
deed, 
Some  people  make  no  trouble  when 

they  die. 
He     turned     and      went     abruptly, 

slammed  the  door. 
And  shut  his  dog  out. 

Romney,  Romney  Leigh. 
I  have  not  named  my  cousin  hitherto, 
And  yet  I  used    him    as    a   sort    of 

friend; 
My  elder  by  few  years,  but  cold  and 

shy 
And   absent  .    .    .   tender,    when   he 

thought  of  it, 
Which  scarcely  was  imperative,  grave 

betimes. 
As  well  as  early  master  of  Leigh  Hall, 
Whereof  the  nightmare  sate  upon  his 

youth 
Rejiressing  all  its  seasonable  delights. 
And  agonizing  with  a  ghastly  sense 
Of  iiniversal  hideous  want  and  wrong 
To  incriminate  possession.     When  he 

came 
From  college  to  the  country,  very  oft 
He  crossed  the  hill  on  visits  to  my 

aunt. 
With  gifts   of  blue  grapes  from  the 

hothouses, 
A  book  in  one  hand,  —  mere  statistics 

(if 
I  chanced  to  lift  the  cover),  count  of 

all 
The  goats  whose  beards  grow  sprout- 
ing down  toward  hell 


i 


10 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Against  God's  separative  judgment- 
hour. 

And   she,  —  she   almost   loved    him  ; 
even  allowed 

That   sometimes   he   should  seem   to 
sigh  my  way: 

It  made  him  easier  to  be  pitiful, 

And  sighing  was  his  gift.     So,  undis- 
turbed 

At  whiles,  she  let  him  shut  my  music 
up. 

And  push  my  needles  down,  and  lead 
me  out 

To   see    in   that  south   angle   of  the 
house 

Tiie  figs  grow  black  as  if  by  a  Tuscan 
rock. 

On  some  light  pretext.     She  would 
turn  her  head 

At  other  moments,  go  to  fetch  a  thing, 

And  leave  me  breath  enough  to  speak 
with  him. 

For  his  sake:  it  was  simple. 

Sometimes  too 

He  would  have  saved  me  utterly,  it 
seemed. 

He  stood  and  looked  so. 

Once  he  stood  so  near 

He  dropped  a  sudden  hand  upon  my 
head 

Bent  down  on  woman's  work,  as  soft 
as  rain  ; 

But  then  I  rose,  and  .shook  it  ofi  as 
fire, — 

The  stranger's   touch  that  took  my 
father's  place. 

Yet  dared  seem  soft. 

I  used  him  for  a  friend 

Before  I  ever  knew  him  for  a  friend. 

'Twas  better,  'twas  worse  also,  after- 
ward : 

We  came  so  close,  we  saw  our  differ- 
ences 

Too     intimately.      Always     Romney 
Leigh 

"Was  looking  for  the  worms,  I  for  the 
gods. 

A  godlike  nature  his  :  the  gods  look 
down. 

Incurious   of   themselves ;    and    cer- 
tainly 

'Tis  well  I  should  remember,  how, 
those  days, 

I  was  a  worm  too,  and  he  looked  on 
me. 

A  little  by  his  act  jierhaps,  yet  more 
By  something  in  me,  surelv  not  mv 
will, 


I  did  not  die;   but  slowly,  as  one  in 

swoon,  * 

To  whom  life  creeps  back  in  the  form 

of  death. 
With  a  sense  of  separation,  a  blind 

pain 
Of    blank    obstruction,    and    a    roar 

i'  the  ears 
Of  visionary  chariots  which  retreat 
As   earth  grows   clearer  .  .  .  slowly, 

by  degrees, 
I  woke,  rose  up  .  .  .  where  was  I  ?  in 

the  world  ; 
For  uses  therefore  I  must  count  worth 

while. 

I  had  a  little  chamber  in  the  house, 
As  green  as  any  jiriA'et-hedge  a  bird 
Might  choose  to  build  in,  though  the 

nest  itself 
Could   show  but   dead-brown   sticks 

and  straws.    The  walls 
Were    green  ;    the    carpet  was    pure 

green;  the  straight 
Small    bed    was  curtained    greenly ; 

and  the  folds 
Hung  green  about  the  window,  which 

let  in 
The  outdoor  world  with  all  its  green- 
ery. 
You  could  not  push  your  head  out, 

and  escape 
A  dash  of  dawn-dew  from  the  honey- 
suckle. 
But  so  you  were  baptized  into  the 

grace 
And  privilege  of  seeing.  .  .  . 

First  the  lime 
(I  had  enough  there,  of  the  lime,  be 

sure  : 
My  morning-dream  was  often  hummed 

away 
By  the  bees  in  it);  i^aat  the  lime  the 

lawn. 
Which,  after  sweeping  broadly  round 

the  house. 
Went   trickling    through   the    shrulv- 

beries  in  a  stream 
Of    tender  turf,   and   wore    and    lost 

itself 
Among  the  acacias,  over  which  you 

saw 
The  irregular  line  of  elms  by  the  deep 

lane 
Which    stopped    the    grounds,    and 

dammed  the  overflow 
Of  arbutus  and  laurel.     Out  of  sight 
The  lane  was ;  sunk  so  deep,  no  foreign 

tramp, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


11 


Nor  drover  of  wild  ponies  out  of 
Wales, 

Could  guess  if  lady's  hall  or  tenant's 
lodge 

Dispensed  such  odors,  though  his 
stick,  well  crooked, 

Might  reach  the  lowest  trail  of  hlos- 
soming  lirier 

Which  dipped  iipon  the  wall.  Be- 
hind the  elms. 

And  through  their  tops,  vou  saw  the 
folded  hills 

Striped  up  and  down  with  hedges 
(burly  oaks 

Projecting  from  the  line  to  show 
themselves). 

Through  which  my  cousin  Romney's 
chimneys  smoked, 

As  still  as  when  a  silent  mouth  in 
frost 

Breathes,  showing  where  the  wood- 
lands hid  Leigh  Hall; 

While,  far  above,  a  jut  of  table-land, 

A  promontory  without  water, 
stretched. 

You  could  not  catch  it  if  the  days  were 
thick. 

Or  took  it  for  a  cloud;  but,  other- 
wise. 

The  vigorous  sun  would  catch  it  up  at 
eve, 

And  use  it  for  an  anvil  till  he  had 
filled 

The  shelves  of  heaven  with  Inirning 
thunderbolts. 

Protesting  against  night  and  dark- 
ness ;  then. 

When  all  his  setting  trouble  was  re- 
solved 

To  a  trance  of  passive  glory,  you 
inight  see 

In  ajiiJarition  on  the  golden  sky, 

(Alas,  \m'  Giotto's  l)ackground  !)  the 
sheef)  run 

Along  the  fine  clear  outline,  small  as 
mice 

That  run  along  a  witch's  scarlet 
thread. 

Not  a  grand  nature  ;  not  my  chestnut- 
woods 

Of  Vallombrosa,  cleaving  by  the 
spurs 

To  the  precipices;  not  my  headlong 
leai^s 

Of  waters,  that  cry  out  for  joy  ur 
fear 

In  leaping  through  the  palintating 
pines, 


Like  a  white  soul  tossed  out  to  eter- 
nity 

With  thrills  of  time  upon  it;  not,  in- 
deed, 

My  multitudinous  mountains,  sitting 
in 

The  magic  circle,   with   the    mutual 
touch 

Electric,  panting  from  their  full  deeii 
hearts 

Beneath  the    influent    heavens,   and 
waiting  for 

Communion  and  commission.     Italj' 

Is  one  thing,  England  one. 

On  English  ground 

You  understand  the  letter,  —  ere  the 
fall 

How  Adam  lived  in   a  garden.    All 
the  fields 

Are  tied  up  fast  with  hedges,  nose- 
gay-like; 

The  hills  are  crumpled    plains,  the 
plains  parterres; 

The  trees  round,  woolly,  ready  to  be 
clii^ped ; 

And  if  you  seek  for  any  wilderness. 

You  find  at  best  a  park.    A  nature 
tamed, 

And  grown  domestic  like  a  barn-door 
fowl. 

Which    does    not  awe  you  with  its 
claws  and  beak. 

Nor  tempt  you  to  an  eyry  too  high 
up, 

But  which  in  cackling  sets  you  think- 
ing of 

Your  eggs  to-morrow  at  breakfast,  in 
the  i:)ause 

Of  finer  meditation. 

Rather  say, 

A  sweet  familiar  nature,  stealing  in 

As  a  dog  juight,  or  child,  to  touch 
your  hand. 

Or  pluck    your    gown,   and    humbly 
mind  you  so 

Of  presence  and  affection,  excellent 

For  inner  uses,  from  the  things  with- 
out. 

I  could  not  be  unthankful,  I  who  was 
Entreated  thus,  and  holpen.     In  the 

room 
I  speak  of,  ere   the   house  was  well 

awake, 
And  also  after  it  was  well  asleep, 
I  sate  alone,  and  drew  the  blessing 

in 
Of  all  that  nature.    With  a  gradual 

step, 


12 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


A  stir  among  the  leaves,  a  breatli,  a 

ray, 
It  came  in  softly,  while  the  angels 

made 
A  place  for  it  beside  me      The  moon 

came. 
And  swept  my  chamber  clean  of  fool- 
ish thonglits. 
The  sun  came,  saying,  "  Shall  I   lift 

this  light 
Against  the   lime-tree,  and  you  will 

not  look  ? 
I  make  the  birds  sing:  listen!  —  but, 

for  you, 
God  never  hears  your  voice,  excepting 

when 
You  lie  upon  the  bed  at  nights,  and 

weep." 

Then    something    moved  jue.    Then 

I  wakened  up, 
More    slowly    than    I    verily    write 

now  ; 
But    wholly,    at    last,    I     wakened, 

opened  A^ide 
The  window  and  my  soul,  and  let  the 

airs 
And  outdoor  sights    swec])    gradual 

gospels  in. 
Regenerating  what  I  was.     O  Life  ! 
How  oft  we  throw  it  off,  and  think, 

"  Enough, 
Enough  of  life  in  so  much!  —  here's  a 

cause 
For  rupture;   herein  we  must  break 

with  Life, 
Or  be  ourselves  unworthy;  here  we 

are  wronged, 
Maimed,  spoiled  for  aspiration:  fare- 
well, Life!" 
And   so,   as  froward   liabes,  we   hide 

our  eyes 
And  think  all  ended.    Then  Life  calls 

to  us 
In    some    transformed,     apocalj-ptic 

voice. 
Above  us,  or  below  us,  or  around: 
Perhaps  we  name  it  Nature's  voice, 

or  Love's, 
Tricking  ourselves,   because   we  are 

more  ashamed 
To  own  our  compensations  than  our 

griefs : 
Still  Life's  A^oice;  still  we  make  our 

peace  with  Life. 

And  I,  so  young  then,  was  not  sullen. 

Soon 
I  used  to  get  up  early  just  to  sit 


And  watch  the  morning  cpiicken  in 
the  gray. 

And  hear  the  silence  open  like  a 
flower. 

Leaf  after  leaf,  and  stroke  with  list- 
less hand 

The  woodbine  through  the  window, 
till  at  last 

I  came  to  do  it  with  a  sort  of  love, 

At  foolish  unaware:  whereat  I 
smiled, 

A  melancholy  smile,  to  catch  myself 

Smiling  for  joy. 

Capacity  for  joy 

Admits  temptation.  It  seemed,  next, 
worth  while 

To  dodge  the  sharja  sword  set  against 
my  life, 

To  slip  down  stairs  through  all  the 
sleepy  house, 

As  mute  as  any  dream  there,  and  es- 
cape, 

As  a  soul  from  the  body,  out  of  doors, 

Glide  through  the  shrubberies,  drop 
into  the  lane, 

And  wander  on  the  hills  an  hour  or 
two. 

Then  back  again,  before  the  house 
should  stir. 

Or   else   I   sate    on    in    my   chamber 

green. 
And  lived  my  life,  and  thought  my 

thoughts,  and  prayed 
My  iirayers  without   the  vicar;   read 

my  books. 
Without    considering    whether    thej' 

were  fit 
To  do  me  good.    Mark    there,  j  We 

get  no  good  "■ 

By  being  ungenerous,  even  to  a  book. 
And   calculating    profits,  —  so    much 

help 
By  so    much  reading.    It    is  rather 

when 
We  gloriously  forget  ourselves,  and 

plunge 
Soul-forward,  headlong,  intt)  a  book's 

profound. 
Impassioned  for  its  beauty  and  salt 

of  truth, — 
'Tis  then  we  get  the  right  good  from 

a  book.      , 

I  read  much.  What  my  father  taught 
before 

From  many  a  volume,  love  re-em- 
phasized 

Upon  the  selfsame  pages:  Theojilirast 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


13 


Grew  tender  with  the  memory  of  his 

eyes, 
And    ^lian    made    mine   wet.    The 

trick  of  Greelt 
And  Latin   he  had  taught  me,  as  he 

woukl 
Havfe    taught    me    wrestling,   or  the 

game  of  lives, 
If  such  lie  had  I<;nown,  —  most  like  a 

shipwrecked  man, 
AYho  heaps  his   single    platter  with 

goats'  cheese 
And  scarlet  berries;  or  like  any  man 
Who  loves  but  one,  and  so  gives  all 

at  once, 
Because   he  has   it,  rather  than  be- 
cause 
He    counts    it    worthy.      Tlius     my 

father  gave ; 
And  thus,  as  did  the  women  formerly 
Bj'  young  Achilles,  when  they  pinned 

a  A'eil 
Across  the  boy"s  audacious  front,  and 

swept 
"With  tuneful  laughs  the  silver-fretted 

rocks. 
He  wrapt  his  little  daughter  in  his 

large 
Man's  doublet,  careless  did  it  fit  or 

110. 

But  after  I  had  read  for  memory 

I  read  for  hope.   The  path  my  father's 

foot 
Had  trod   me   out  (which    suddenly 

broke  off 
^Yhat  time  he  drojiped  the  wallet  of 

the  flesh 
And  passed)  alone  I  carried  on,  and 

set 
^ly  child-heart  'gainst  the  thorny  un- 
derwood, 
To  reach  the  grassy  shelter  of   the 

trees. 
Ah     babe     i'    the    wood,    without    a 

brother-babe  ! 
iSIy  own  self-jjity,  like  the  redbreast 

bird. 
Flies  back  to  cover  all  that  past  with 

leaves. 

Sublimest  danger,  over  which   none 

weeps. 
When  any  A'ouug  wavfaring  soul  goes 

forth' 
Alone,  unconscious  of    the    perilous 

road. 
The  day-sun  dazzling  in  his   limpid 

eyes. 


To  thrust  his  own  way,  he  an  alien, 

through 
The  world   of    books  !      Ah,   you  !  — 

you  think  it  fine. 
You  clap  hands —  "  A    fair  day  !  "  — 

you  cheer  him  on. 
As  if  the  worst  could  hajipen  were  to 

rest 
Too  long  beside  a  fountain.     Y^et  be- 
hold. 
Behold  !  —  the  world  of  books  is  still 

the  world, 
And  worldlings  in  it  are  less  merciful 
And  more  puissant.    For  the  wicked 

there 
Are  winged  like  angels;  every  knife 

that  strikes 
Is  edged  from  elemental  fire  to  assail 
A  si^iritual  life;  the  beautiful   seems 

right 
By  force  of   beauty,   and  the  feeble 

wrong 
Because  of  weakness ;  power  is  justi- 
fied, 
Though  armed  against  St.  Michael; 

many  a  crown 
Covers  bald  foreheads.     In  the  book- 
world,  true. 
There's    no    lack,   neither,   of    God's 

saints  and  kings, 
That  shake  the  ashes  of    the  grave 

aside 
From   their  calm  locks,  and,  undis- 

comfited. 
Look  steadfast  truths  against  Time's 

changing  mask. 
True,  many  a  prophet  teaches  in  the 

roads ; 
True,   many  a  seer  pulls  down   the 

flaming  heavens 
Upon  his  own  head  in  strong  martj'r- 

dom 
In    order  to  light  men  a  moment's 

sjjace. 
But  stay  !     Who  judges  ?    Who   dis- 
tinguishes 
'Twixt  Saul  and  Nahash    justly,   at 

first  sight, 
And  leaves  King  Saul  precisely  at  the 

sin. 
To  serve  King  David  ?    Who  discerns 

at  once 
The  sound  of  the  trumpets,  when  the 

trumpets  blow 
For  Alaric  as  well  as  Charlemagne  ? 
Who  judges  wizards,  and  can  tell  true 

seers 
From  conjurers  ?    The  child,  there  ? 

Would  you  leave 


[♦■♦I 


14 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


•That  child  to  wander  in  a  battle- 
field, 

And  push  his  innocent  smile  against 
the  guns  ? 

Or  even  in  a  catacomb,  his  torch 

Grown  ragged  in  the  fluttering  air, 
and  ail 

The  dark  a-mutter  round  him  ?  not  a 
child. 

I  read  books  bad  and  good,  —  some 

bad  and  good 
At  once  (good  aims  not  always  make 

good  books: 
"Well-tempered   spades    turn    up    ill- 
smelling  soils 
In    digging  vineyards   even)  ;   books 

that  prove 
God's  being  so  definitely,  that  man's 

doubt 
Grows  self-defined  the  other  side  the 

line, 
Made  atheist    by  suggestion;    moral 

books, 
Exasperating  to  license ;  genial  books, 
Discounting  from  the  human  dignity ; 
And    merr,y    books,    which    set    you 

weeping  when 
The  sun  shines ;  ay,  and  melancholy 

books, 
Which  make  you  laugh  that  any  one 

shoitid  weep 
In  this  disjointed  life  for  one  wrong 

more. 

The  world  of  books  is  still  the  world, 
I  write  ; 

And  both  worlds  have  God's  provi- 
dence, thank  God, 

To  keep  and  hearten.  With  some 
struggle,  indeed, 

Among  the  breakers,  some  hard  swim- 
ming through 

The  deeps,  I  lost  breath  in  my  soul 
sometimes. 

And  cried,  "  God  save  me,  if  there's 
any  God  !  " 

But,  even  so,  God  saved  me;  and, 
being  dashed 

From  error  on  to  error,  every  turn 

Still  brought  me  nearer  to  the  central 
truth. 

I  thought  so.     All  this  anguish  in  the 

thick 
Of     men's     opinions  .  .  .  press     and 

counterpress. 
Now  up,  now  down,  now  underfoot, 

and  now 


Emergent  .  .  .  all  the  best  of  it,  per- 
haps. 

But  throws  you  back  upon  a  noble 
trust 

And  use  of  your  own  instinct,  — 
merely  proves 

Pure  reason  stronger  than  bare  infer- 
ence 

At  strongest.  Try  it,  —  fix  against 
heaven's  wall 

The  scaling-ladders  of  school  logic, 
mount 

Step  by  step  !  —  sight  goes  faster ;  that 
still  ray 

"Which  strikes  out  from  you,  how,  you 
cannot  tell. 

And  why,  you  know  not,  (did  you 
eliminate. 

That  such  as  vou  indeed  should  ana- 
lyze ?) 

Goes  straight  and  fast  as  light,  and 
high  as  God. 

/ 

The  cygnet  finds  the  water;  but  the 
man 

Is  born  in  ignorance  of  his  element, 

And  feels  out,  blind  at  first,  disorgan- 
ized 

Bv  sin  i'  the  blood,  his  spirit-insight 
dulled 

And  crossed  by  his  sensations.  Pres- 
ently 

He  feels  it  quicken  in  the  dark  some- 
times. 

When,  mark,  lie  reverent,  be  obedi- 
ent. 

For  such  dumb  motions  of  imperfect 
life 

Are  oracles  of  vital  Deity, 

Attesting  the  Hereafter.  Let  who 
says 

"The  soul's  a  clean  white  jiaper," 
rather  say, 

A  palimpsest,  a  jirojihet's  holograiih. 

Defiled,  erased,  and  covered  by  a 
monk's,  — 

The  apocalypse,  by  a  Longus  !  i^oring 
on 

Which  obscene  text,  we  may  discern, 
perhaps, 

Some  fair,  fine  trace  of  what  was 
written  once. 

Some  upstroke  of  an  alpha  ajul  omega 

Expressing  the  old  scripture. 

Books,  l)ooks,  books  ! 

I  had  found  the  secret  of  a  garret- 
room. 

Piled  high  with  cases  in  my  father's 
name. 


! 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


15 


Piled  high,  packed  large,  where,  creei> 

ing  in  and  out 
Among  the  giant  fossils  of  my  past, 
Like  some  small  nimble   mouse  be- 
tween the  ribs 
Of  a  mastodon,  I  nibbled  here  and 

there 
At  this  or  that  box,  pulling  through 

the  gap 
In  heats  of  terror,  haste,   victorious 

joy, 
The  first  book  first.     And  how  I  felt 

it  beat 
Under  my  pillow  in    the  morning's 

dark, 
An  hour  before  the  sun  would  let  me 

read  ! 
My  books  !    At  last,  because  the  time 

was  ripe, 
I  chanced  upon  the  poets. 

As  the  earth 
Plunges  in  fury,  when  the  internal 

fires 
Have  reached  and  pricked  her  heart, 

and  throwing  flat 
The  marts  and  temples,  the  triumphal 

gates 
And  towers  of  observation,  clears  her- 
self 
To    elemental    freedom  —  thus,    my 

soul, 
At  poetry's  divine  first  finger-touch, 
Let  go  conventions,  and  sprang  up 

surprised, 
Convicted  of  the  great  eternities 
Before  two  worlds. 

What's  this,  Aurora  Leigh, 
You  write  so  of  the   poets,  and  not 

laugh  ? 
Those  virtuous  liars,  dreamers  after 

dark, 
Exaggerators  of  the  sun  and  moon, 
And  soothsayers  in  a  tea-cuji  ? 

I  write  so 
Of  the  only  truth-tellers  now  left  to 

God,'^ 
The  only  speakers  of  essential  truth, 
Opposed  to  relative,  comjiarative. 
And  temjioral  truths;  the  onlv  holders 

by 

His  sun-skirts,  through  conventional 
gray  glooms; 

The  onh'  teachers  who  instruct  man- 
kind , 

From  just  a  shadow  on  a  charnel- 
wall, 

To  find  man's  veritable  stature  out 

Erect,  sublime,  —  the  measure  of  a 
man; 


And  that's  the  measure  of  an  angel, 
says 

The  apostle.  Ay,  and  wliile  your 
common  men 

Lay  telegraphs,  gauge  railroads,  reign, 
reap,  dine. 

And  dust  the  flaunty  carpets  of  the 
world 

For  kings  to  walk  on,  or  our  presi- 
dent, 

The  poet  suddenly  will  catch  them  up 

"With  his  voice  like  a  thunder,  — 
"  This  is  soul, 

This  is  life,  this  word  is  being  said  in 
heaven, 

Here's  God  down  on  us!  what  are  you 
about?" 

How  all  those  workers  start  amid 
their  work, 

Look  round,  look  uji,  and  feel,  a  mo- 
ment's space. 

That  carpet-dusting,  though  a  pretty 
trade, 

Is  not  the  imperative  labor,  after  all ! 

My  own  best  poets,  am  I  one  with 
you, 

That  thus  I  love  you,  —  or  but  one 
through  love  ? 

Does  all  this  smell  of  thvme  about  mv 
feet 

Conclude  my  visit  to  your  holy  hill 

In  personal  presence,  or  but  testify 

The  rustling  of  your  vesture  through 
my  dreams 

With  influent  odors  ?  When  my  joy 
and  pain, 

My  thought  and  aspiration,  like  the 
stops 

Of  pipe  or  flute,  are  absolutely  dumb, 

tJnless  melodious,  do  you  play  on  me. 

My  pipers?  —  and  if,  sooth,  you  did 
not  blow, 

AVould  no  sound  come  ?  or  is  the  mu- 
sic mine. 

As  a  man's  voice  or  breath  is  called 
his  own, 

Inbreathed  by  the  Life-breather  ? 
There's  a  doubt 

For  cloudy  seasons! 

But  the  sun  was  high 

When  first  I  felt  my  pulses  set  them- 
selves 

For  concord ;  when  the  rhythmic  tur- 
bulence 

Of  blood  and  brain  swept  outward 
upon  words, 

As  wind  upon  the  alders,  blanching 
them 


16 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


By  turning  up  their  under-natures  till 

They  trembled  in  dilation.     O  delight 

And  triumph  of  the  poet,  who  would 
say 

A  man's  mere  "  yes,"  a  woman's  com- 
mon "  no," 

A  little  human  hope  of  that  or  this. 

And  says  the  word  so  that  it  burns 
you  through 

With  a  special  revelation,  shakes  the 
heart 

Of  all  the  men   and   women  in  the 
world, 

As  if  one  came  back  from  the  dead, 
and  spoke. 

With  eyes  too  happy,  a  familiar  thing 

Become  divine  i'  the  iitterance  !  while 
for  him 

The  poet,  speaker,  he   expands  with 
joy; 

The  palpitating  angel  in  his  flesh 

Thrills  inly  with  consenting  fellow- 
ship 

To  those  innumerous  spirits  who  sun 
themselves 

Outside  of  time. 

O  life  !  O  poetry, 

—  Which  means  life  in  lite!  cognizant 
of  life 

Beyond  this  blood-beat,  passionate  for 
truth 

Beyond    these    senses!  —  poetry,    my 
life. 

My  eagle,  with   lioth  grap]jling  feet 
still  hot 

From  Zeus's  thunder,  who  hast  rav- 
ished me 

Away  from  all  the  shepherds,  sheep, 
and  dogs, 

And  set  me  in  the  Olympian  roar  and 
round 

Of  luminous  faces  for  a  cup-bearer. 

To  keep  the  mouths  of  all  the  god- 
heads moist 

For  everlasting  laughters,  —  I  myself 

Half  drunk  across  the  -beaker  "with 
their  eyes! 

How  those  gods  look! 

Enough  so,  Ganymede, 

We  shall  not  bear  above  a  round  or 
two. 

We  drop  the  golden  cup  at  Here's 
foot. 

And  swoon  Itack  to   the  earth,  and 
find  ourselves 

Face  down  among  the  pine-cones,  cold 
with  dew, 

While  the   dogs  bark,   and  many  a 
shepherd  scoffs, 


"  What's  now  come  to  the  youth?" 

Such  \\\)S,  and  downs 
Have  poets. 

Am  I  such  indeed  ?    The  name 
Is  royal,  and  to  sign  it  like  a  queen 
Is   what   I   dare   not,  —  thougli   some 

royal  lilood 
Would  seem  to  tingle  in  me  now  and 

then. 
With  sense  of  power  and  ache,  —  with 

imposthumes 
And  manias  usual  to  the  race.    How- 

beit 
I  dare  not:  'tis  too  easy  to  go  mad 
And  ajie   a   Bourbon   in  a  crown  of 

straws : 
The  thing's  too  common. 

Many  fervent  souls 
Strike  rhyme  on  rhyme,  wlio  would 

strike  steel  on  steel, 
If  steel  had  offered,  in  a  restless  heat 
Of    doing  something.     Many  tender 

souls 
Have  strung  their  losses  on  a  rliyming 

thread. 
As  children,  cowslips:  the  more  pains 

they  take, 
The  work  more  withers.    Young  men, 

ay,  and  maids, 
Too  often  sow  their  wild  oats  in  tame 

verse, 
Before  they  sit  down  under  their  own 

vine. 
And  live  for  use.    Alas!  near  all  the 

birds 
Will  sing  at  dawn  ;  and  yet  we  do  not 

take 
The  chaiTering  swallow  for  the  holy 

lark. 

In  those  days,  though,  I  never  an- 
alyzed, 

Not  even  myself.  Analysis  comes 
late. 

You  catch  a  sight  of  Nature  earliest 

In  full  front  sun-face,  and  your  eye- 
lids wink 

And  drop  Ijefore  the  wonder  oft :  you 
miss 

The  form,  through  seeing  the  light.  I 
lived  those  days. 

And  wrote  because  I  lived  —  unli- 
censed else  ; 

My  heart  l)eat  in  my  brain.  Life's  vio- 
lent flood 

Abolished  bounds  ;  and  which  my 
neighbor's  field. 

Which  mine,  what  mattered  ?  It  is 
thus  in  vouth. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


AVe  play  at  leap-frog  over  the  god 
Term; 

The  love  within  us  and  the  love  with- 
out 

Are  mixed,  confounded  :  if  we  are 
loved,  or  love. 

We  scarce  distinguish.  Thus  with 
other  power ; 

Being  acted  on  and  acting  seem  the 
same. 

lu  that  first  onrush  of  life's  chariot- 
wheels, 

We  know  not  if  the  forests  move,  or 
we. 

And  so,  like  most  voung  poets,  in  a 

flush 
Of  individual  life  I  poured  myself 
Along     the    A'eins     of     others,    and 

achieved 
Mere  lifeless  imitations  of  live  A-erse, 
And  made  the  living- answer  for  the 

dead, 
Profaning  nature.     "  Touch  not,   do 

not  taste, 
Nor  handle," — Ave're  too  legal,  who 

write  young  : 
We  beat  the  phorminx  till  we  hurt 

our  thumbs, 
As  if  still  ignorant  of  counterpoint  ; 
We   call   the   Muse,  — "O   Muse,  be- 
nignant Muse  !  ■'  — 
As  if  we  had  seen  her  jiurple-ljraided 

head. 
With  the  eyes  in  it,  start  between  the 

boughs 
As  often  as  a  stag's.     What  make- 
believe, 
With  so  much  earnest !    what  effete 

results 
From  virile  efforts  I  what  cold  wire- 
drawn odes. 
From   such   white   heats  !  —  bucolics, 

where  the  cows 
Would     scare     the     writer    if     they 

splashed  the  mud 
In    lashing   oft"    the  flies  ;    didactics, 

driven 
Against  the  heels  of  what  the  master 

said  ; 
And  counterfeiting  epics,  shrill  with 

trumps 
A    babe    might    blow    between    two 

straining  cheeks 
Of  Ijubbled  rose,  to  make  his  mother 

laugh  ; 
And  elegiac  griefs,  and  songs  of  love, 
Like  cast-off  nosegays  jiicked  up  on 

the  road, 


The  worse  for  being  warm:  all  these 

things,  writ 
On  happy  mornings,  with  a  morning 

heart. 
That  leaps  for  love, is  active  for  resolve, 
Weak  for  art  only.     Oft  the  ancient 

forms 
Will   thrill,    indeed,   in   carrying  the 

young  blood. 
The  wine-skins,  now  and  then  a  little 

warped. 
Will  crack    even,   as   the   new  wine 

gurgles  in. 
Spare  the  old  bottles  !     Spill  not  the 

new  wine. 

By  Keats's  soul,  the  man  who  never 

stepped 
In  gradual  progress  like  another  man, 
But,  turning  grandly  on  his  central 

self, 
Ensphered  himself  in  twenty  iierfect 

years. 
And  died,   not  young  (the   life   of  a 

long  life 
Distilled  to  a  mere  drop,  falling  like  a 

tear 
Upon  the  world's  cold  cheek  to  make 

it  burn 
Forever),  —  by  that  strong  excepted 

soul 
I  count  it  strange  and  hard  to  under- 
stand 
That  nearly  all  young  jjoets  should 

write  old  ; 
That  Poi^e  was  sexagenary  at  sixteen. 
And  beardless  Bj-ron  academical, 
And  so  with  others.     It  may  be,  jier- 

haps, 
Such  have  not  settled  long  and  deep 

enough 
In  trance  to  attain  to  clairvoyance  ; 

and  still 
The  memory  mixes  with  the  vision, 

spoils, 
And  works  it  turbid. 

Or  perhaps,  again. 
In  order  to  discover  the  Muse-Sphinx, 
The  melancholy  desert  must  sweep 

round, 
Behind  you  as  before. 

For  me,  I  wrote 
False  poems,  like  the  rest,  and  thought 

them  true 
Because  myself   was  true  in  writing 

them. 
I,  peradventure,  have  writ  true  ones 

since 
With  less  complacence. 


18 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


But  I  could  not  hide 

My  quickening  inner  life  from  those 
at  watch. 

They  saw  a  light  at  a  window  now 
and  then 

They  had  not  set  there  :  who  had  set 
it  there  ? 

My  father's  sister  started  when  she 
caught 

My  soul  agaze  in  my  eyes.  She  could 
not  say 

I  had  no  husiness  with  a  sort  of  soul  ; 

But  plainly  slie  objected,  and  de- 
murred 

That  souls  were  dangerous  things  to 
carry  straight 

Through  all  the  spilt  saltpetre  of  the 
world. 

She  said  sometimes,  "Aurora,  have 
you  done 

Your  task  this  morning  ?  have  you 
read  that  book  ? 

And  are  you  readv  for  the  crochet 
here?"  — 

As  if  she  said,  "  I  know  there's  some- 
thing wrong  ; 

I  know  I  iiave  not  ground  you  down 
enough 

To  flatten  and  bake  you  to  a  whole- 
some crust, 

For  household  uses  and  proprieties. 

Before  the  rain  has  got  into  my  barn. 

And  set  the  grains  a-sprouting.  AVhat, 
you're  green 

With  outdoor  impudence  ?  you  al- 
most grow  ? ' ' 

To  which  I  answered,  "  Would  she 
hear  my  task, 

And  verify  my  abstract  of  the  book? 

Or  should  I  sit  down  to  the  crochet- 
work  ? 

Was  such  her  jjleasure?"  Then  I 
sate  and  teased 

The  i^atient  needle  till  it  spilt  the 
thread. 

Which  oozed  off  from  it  in  meander- 
ing lace 

From  hour  to  hour.  I  was  not  there- 
fore sad  ; 

My  sold  was  singing  at  a  work  apart. 

Behind  the  wall  of  sense,  as  safe  from 
harm 

As  sings  the  lark  when  sucked  \\\)  out 
of  sight 

In  vortices  of  glory  and  blue  air. 

And    so,    through    forced  work    and 

sjjontaneous  work. 
The  inner  life  informed  the  outer  life, 


Reduced  the  irregular  blood  to  a  set- 
tled rhythm, 

Made  cool  i\\e  forehead  with  fresh- 
sprinkling  di-eams. 

And  rounding  to  the  spheric  soul  the 
thin. 

Pined  body,  struck  a  color  up  the 
cheeks, 

Though  somewhat  faint.  I  clinched 
my  brows  across 

My  blue  eyes,  greatening  in  tlie  look- 
ing-glass. 

And  said,  "  We'll  live,  Aurora  !  we'll 
be  strong. 

The  dogs  are  on  us ;  but  we  will  not 
die." 

Whoever  lives  true  life  will  love  true 
love. 

I  learnt  to  love  that  England.  Verv 
oft, 

Before  the  day  was  born,  or  otherwise 

Through  secret  windings  of  the  after- 
noons, 

I  threw  my  hunters  off,  and  plunged 
myself 

Among  the  deep  hills,  as  a  hunted 
stag 

Will  take  the  w^aters,  shivering  with 
the  fear 

And  passion  of  the  course.  And 
when  at  last 

Escaped,  so  many  a  green  slope  built 
on  slope 

Betwixt  me  and  the  enemy's  house 
behind, 

I  dared  to  rest,  or  wander  in  a  rest 

iSIade  sweeter  for  the  step  upon  the 
grass, 

And  view  the  ground's  most  gentle 
dimplement 

(As  if  God's  finger  touched,  but  did 
not  press. 

In  making  England);  such  an  up-and- 
down 

Of  verdure,  nothing  too  much  up  or 
down, 

A  ripple  of  land;  such  little  hills  the 
sky 

Can  stoop  to  tenderly,  and  the  wheat- 
fields  climb ; 

Such  nooks  of  valleys  lined  with 
orchises, 

Fed  full  of  noises  by  invisible 
streams ; 

And  open  pastures  where  you  scarce- 
ly tell 

White  daisies  from  white  dew;  at 
intervals 


i 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


19 


The  mythic  oaks  and  elm-trees  stand- 
ing out 

Self-poised    upon    their    prodigy    of 
shade,  — 

I  thought  my  father's  land  was  wor- 
thy too 

Of  being  my  Shakspeare's. 

Very  oft  alone, 

Unlicensed;    not    unfrequently    with 
leave 

To  walk  the  tliird  with  Romney  and 
his  friend 

The  rising  painter,  Vincent  C'arring- 
ton, 

Whom  men  judge  hardly  as  bee-bon- 
neted, 

Because  he  holds  that,  paint  a  body 
well. 

You  paint  a  soul  bj'  implication,  like 

The    grand    first    Master.      Pleasant 
walks:  for  if 

He  said,  "  When  I  was  last  in  Italy," 

It  sounded  as  an  instrument  that's 
played 

Too  far  off  for  the  tune,  and  yet  it's  fine 

To  listen. 

Ofter  we  walked  only  two, 

If   cousin  Romney  pleased   to  walk 
with  me. 

We  read,  or  talked,  or  quarrelled,  as 
it  chanced. 

We  were  not  loA-ers,  nor  even  friends 
well  matched: 

Say,  rather,   scholars  upon   different 
tracks, 

Aud  thinkers  disagreed,  —  he,   over- 
full 

Of  what  is,  and  I,  haply,  overbold 

For  what  might  be. 

But  then  the  thrushes  sang. 

And  shook  my  jjulses  and  the  elm's 
new  leaves; 

At  which  I  turned,  and  held  my  fin- 
ger lip, 

And  bade  him  mark,  that  howsoe'er 
the  world 

Went  ill,  as  he  related,  certainly 

The  thruslies  still  sang  in  it.    At  the 
word 

His  brow  would  soften;  and  he  bore 
with  me 

In  melancholy  patience,  not  unkind, 

While,  breaking  into  voluble  ecstasy, 

I  flattered  all  the  beauteous  country 
round. 

As  poets  use, — the  skies,  the  clouds, 
the  fields. 

The  happy  violets  hiding  from    the 
roads 


The  primroses  run  down  to,  carrying 
gold ; 

The  tangled  hedgerows,  where  the 
cows  push  out 

Impatient  horns  and  tolerant  churn- 
ing mouths 

'Twixt  driijping  ash-boughs;  hedge- 
rows all  alive 

With  birds  and  gnats,  and  large  white 
butterflies 

Which  look  as  if  the  Mayflower  had 
caught  life. 

And  palpitated  forth  upon  the  wind; 

Hills,  vales,  woods,  netted  in  a  silver 
mist; 

Farms,  granges,  doubled  up  among 
the  hills; 

And  cattle  grazing  in  the  watered 
vales ; 

And  cottage-chimneys  smoking  from 
the  woods; 

And  cottage-gardens  smelling  every- 
where, 

Confused  with  smell  of  orchards. 
"See!"  I  said, 

"  Aud  see!  is  not  God  with  us  on  the 
earth  ? 

And  shall  we  put  him  down  by  aught 
we  do  ? 

W^ho  says  there's  nothing  for  the  poor 
and  vile 

Save  poverty  and  wickedness  ?  Be- 
hold! '■' 

Aud  ankle-deeji  in  English  grass  I 
leaped. 

And  clapped  my  hands,  and  called 
all  very  fair. 

In  the  beginning,  when  God  called  all 

good, 
Even   then,    was  evil   near   us,  it  is 

writ; 
But  we  indeed  who  call  things  good 

and  fair, 
The  evil  is  upon  us  while  we  speak: 
Deliver  us  from  evil,  let  us  pray. 


SECOND   BOOK. 

Times  followed  one  another.    Came  a 

morn 
I   stood  upon    the    brink   of  twenty 

years. 
And  looked    l)efore  and  after,   as  I 

stood 
Woman  aud  artist,  either  incomplete, 


^K*H 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Both  credulous  of  completion.    There 

I  lield 
The  whole  creation  in  my  little  cup, 
And  smiled  with  thirstj'  lips  before  I 

drank 
"  Good  health  to  you  and  me,  sweet 

neighbor  mine, 
And  all  tliese  jieoples." 

I  was  glad  that  day ; 
The  June  was  in  me,  with  its  multi- 
tudes 
Of    nightingales    all    singing    in    the 

dark, 
And  rosebuds  reddening  where  the 

calyx  split. 
I  felt  so  young,  so  strong,  so  sure  of 

God, 
So  glad,  I  could  not  choose  be  very 

wise, 
And,  old  at  twenty,  was  inclined  to 

pull 
My  childhood  backward  in  a  childish 

jest 
To  see  the  face  oft  once  more,  and 

farewell! 
In  which  fantastic  mood  I  bounded 

forth 
At  early  morning,  would  not  wait  so 

long 
As  even  to  snatch  my  bonnet  by  the 

strings, 
But,  brushing  a  green  trail  across  the 

lawn 
With  my  gown  in  the  dew,  took  will 

and  way 
Among  the  acacias  of  the  shrubber- 
ies, 
To  fly  my  fancies  in  the  open  air. 
And  keep  my  birthday  till  my  aunt 

awoke 
To  stop  good  dreams.    Meanwhile  I 

murmured  on 
As  honeyed  bees  keep  humming  to 

themselves, 
"  The  worthiest  poets  have  remained 

uncrowned 
Till  death  has  bleached    their   fore- 
heads to  the  bone; 
And  so  with  me  it  must  be,  unless  I 

prove 
Unworthy  of  the  grand  adversity; 
And    certainly  I  would    not  fail  so 

much. 
"What,  therefore,  if  I  crown  myself  to- 
day 
In  sport,  not  pride,  to  learn  the  feel  of 

it 
Before    my    brows    be    numbed    as 

Dante's  own 


To  all   the   tender  jiricking  of  such 

leaves  ? 
Such  leaves  !  what  leaves  ? 

I  pulled  the  branches  down 
To  choose  from. 

"  Not  the  bay!  I  choose  no  bay, 
(The  fates  deny  us  if  we  are  overbold) 
Nor  myrtle,  which  means  chiefly  love; 

and  love 
Is  something  awful,  which  one  dares 

not  touch 
So  early  o'  mornings.    This  verbena 

strains 
The  point  of    passionate    fragrance; 

and  hard  by 
This  guelder-rose,  at  far  too  slight  a 

beck 
Of    the    wind,  will    toss    about    her 

flower-apples. 
Ah,  there's  my  choice,  that  ivy  on  the 

wall, 
That  headlong  ivy  !   not  a  leaf  will 

grow 
But    thinking    of    a  wreath.      Large 

leaves,  smooth  leaves, 
Serrated  like  ray  vines,  and  half  as 

green. 
I  like  such  \\y,  bold  to  leap  a  height 
'Twas  strong  to  climb;    as  good  to 

grow  on  graves 
As  twist  about  a  thyrsus;  pretty  too, 
(And    that's    not    ill)    when    twisted 

round  a  comb." 

Thus  speaking  to  mvself,  half  singing 

it. 
Because  some  thoughts  are  fashioned 

like  a  bell. 
To  ring  with  once  being  touched,  I 

drew  a  wreath 
Drenched,    blinding   me    with    dew, 

across  my  brow. 
And,  fastening  it  behind  so,  turning, 

faced 
.  .  .  My  public!  —  cousin  Romney  — 

with  a  mouth 
Twice  graver  than  his  eyes. 

I  stood  there  fixed, 
My  arms  up,  like  the  caryatid,  sole 
Of  some  abolished  temple,  helplessly 
Persistent  in  a  gesture  which  derides 
A  former  purpose.    Yet  my  blush  was 

flame. 
As  if  from  liax,  not  stone. 

"  Aurora  Leigh, 
The  earliest  of  Auroras!  " 

'  Hand  stretched  out 

I  clasped,  as  shipwrecked  men  will 

clasp  a  hand. 


I 


"  I  stood  there  fixed, 
My  arms  up,  like  the  caryatid."  —  Page  ao. 


Of     *r><- 


of 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


21 


Indifferent  to  the  sort  of  palm.    The 

tide 
Had  caught  me  at  my  pastime,  writing 

down 
My  foolish  name  too  near  upon  the  sea, 
Which  drowned  me  with  a  blush  as 

foolish.     "  You, 
My  cousin!  " 

The  smile  died  out  in  his  eyes, 
And  dropped  upon   his   lips,   a  cold 

dead  weight, 
For  just  a  moment,  "  Here's  a  book 

I  found ; 
No  name  writ  on  it  —  poems,  by  the 

form ; 
Some  Greek  upon  the  margin;  lady's 

Greek 
Without  the  accents.    Read  it  ?    Not 

a  word. 
I  saw  at  once  the  thing  had  witchcraft 

in't. 
Whereof  the  reading  calls  up  danger- 
ous spirits: 
I  rather  bring  it  to  the  witch." 

"  My  book. 
You  found  it"  .  .  . 

"  In  the  hollow  by  the  stream 
That  beech  leans  down  into,  of  which 

you  said 
The  Oread  in  it  has  a  Naiad's  heart. 
And  pines  for  waters." 

"Thank  you." 

"  Thanks  to  you 

My  cousin,  that  I  have  seen  you  not 

too  much 
Witch,    scholar,   poet,   dreamer,   and 

the  rest, 
To  be  a  woman  also." 

With  a  glance 
The  smile  rose  in  his  eyes  again,  and 

touched 
The  ivy  on  my  forehead,  light  as  air. 
I    answered    gravely,   "  Poets    needs 

must  be. 
Or  men  or  women,  more's  the  pity." 

"Ah, 
But  men,  and  still  less  women,  hap- 
pily. 
Scarce  need  be  poets.     Keep  to  the 

green  wreath. 
Since  even  dreaming  of  the  stone  and 

bronze 
Brings  headaches,  pretty  cousin,  and 

defiles 
The  clean  white  morning  dresses." 

"  So  you  judge, 
Because  I  love  the  beautiful  I  must 
Love  pleasure  chiefly,  and  be  over- 
charged 


For  ease  and  whiteness  !  well,   you 

know  the  world. 
And  only  miss  your  cousin:    'tis  not 

much. 
But  learn  this:  I  would  rather  take 

my  part 
With  God's  dead,  who  afford  to  walk 

in  white. 
Yet  spread  his  glory,  than  keep  quiet 

here. 
And  gather  up  my  feet  from  even  a 

step. 
For  fear  to  soil  my  gown  in  so  much 

dust. 
I  choose  to  walk  at  all  risks.    Here, 

if  heads 
That  hold  a  rhythmic  thought  must 

ache  perforce. 
For  my  part  I  choose    headaches,  — 

and  to-day's  my  birthday." 
"  Dear  Aurora,  choose  instead 
To  cure  them.    You  have  balsams." 

"  I  perceive. 
The  headache  is  too  noble  for  my  sex. 
You  think  the  heartache  would  sound 

decenter. 
Since    that's    the    woman's    special, 

proper  ache, 
And  altogether  tolerable,  except 
To  a  woman." 

Saying  which,  I  loosed  my  wreath. 
And    swinging    it    beside    me    as    I 

walked. 
Half    petulant,   half  playful,   as    we 

walked, 
I  sent  a  sidelong    look    to    find  his 

thought. 
As   falcon    set    on    falconer's    finger 

may. 
With    sidelong   head,    and    startled, 

braving  eye. 
Which    means,    "  You'll    see,   you'll 

see  I    I'll  soon  take  flight. 
You  shall  not  hinder."    He,  as  shak- 
ing out 
His    hand,     and    answering,    "  Fly, 

then,"  did  not  speak. 
Except  by  such  a  gesture.     Silently 
We   paced,  until,  just    coming    into 

sight 
Of  the  house-windows,   he  abruptly 

caught 
At  one  end  of  the  swinging  wreath, 

and  said, 
"Aurora!"    There  I  stopped  short, 

breath  and  all. 

"  Aurora,  let's  be  serious,  and  throw 

by 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


This  game  of  head  and   heart.    Life 

means,  be  sure, 
Both  heart  and  head,  —  both  active, 

both  complete, 
And  both  in  earnest.    Men  and  wo- 
men make 
The  world,  as  head  and  heart  make 

human  life. 
Work,    man,    work,    woman,    since 

there's  work  to  do 
In  this  beleaguered    earth   for  head 

and  heart; 
And  thought  can  never  do  the  work 

of  love: 
But  work  for  ends,  I  mean  for  uses, 

not 
For  such  sleek  fringes  (do  you  call 

them  ends, 
Still  less  God's  glory  ?)  as  we  sew  our- 
selves 
Upon  the  velvet  of  those  baldaquins 
Held  'twixt  us  and  the  sun.    That 

book  of  yours 
I  haA^e  not  read  a  page  of  ;  Vjut  I  toss 
A  rose  up  —  it  falls  calyx  down,  you 

see  ! 
The  chances  are,  that  being  a  woman, 

young 
And  pure,  with  such  a  pair  of  large, 

calm  eyes. 
You  write  as   well  .  .  .  and  ill  .  .  . 

upon  the  whole, 
As  other  women.     If  as  well,  what 

then  ? 
If  even  a  little  better  .  .  .  still,  what 

then? 
We  want  the  best  in  art  now,  or  no 

art. 
The  time  is  done  for  facile  settings-up 
Of  minnow-gods,  nymphs  here,  and 

tritons  there: 
The    polytheists    have    gone    out    in 

God, 
That    unity  of    bests.     No    best,   no 

God! 
And  so  with  art,  we  say.     Give  art's 

divine, 
Direct,  indubitable,  real  as  grief. 
Or,  leave  us  to  the  grief,  we  grow  our- 
selves 
Divine  by  overcoming  with  mere  hope 
And    most    i^rosaic    patience.      You, 

you  are  young 
As  Eve  with  nature's  daybreak  on 

her  face  ; 
But  this  same  world  you  are  come  to, 

dearest  coz. 
Has    done  with    keeping    birthdays, 

saves  her  wreaths 


To  hang  upon  her  ruins,  and  forgets 
To  rhyme  the  cry  with  which  she  still 

beats  back 
Those  savage,  hungry  dogs  that  hunt 

her  down 
To  the  empty  grave  of  Christ.    The 

world's  hard  pressed: 
The  sweat  of  labor  in  the  early  curse 
Has  (turning  acrid  in  six  thousand 

years) 
Become  the  sweat  of  torture.    Who 

has  time. 
An  hour's  time  .  .  .  think  !  —  to  sit 

upon  a  bank, 
And  hear  the  cymbal  tinkle  in  white 

hands  ? 
When  Egypt's  slain,  I  say,  let  Miriam 

sing !  — 
Before  —  where's  Moses  ?  " 

"  Ah,  exactly  that. 
Where's  Moses?    Is  a  Moses  to  be 

found  ? 
You'll  seek  him  vainly  in  the  bul- 
rushes, 
While  I  in  vain  touch  cymbals.    Yet 

concede, 
Such  sounding  brass  has  done  some 

actual  good 
(The  application  in  a  woman's  hand, 
If  that  were  credible,  being  scarcely 

spoilt), 
In  colonizing  beehives." 

"There  it  is  ! 
You  play  beside  a  death-bed  like  a 

child, 
Yet  measure  to  yourself  a  prophet's 

place 
To  teach  the  living.   None  of  all  these 

things 
Can  women   understand.     You  gen- 
eralize, 
Oh,  nothing,  —  not  even  grief  !    Your 

(juick-breathed  heai'ts, 
So  sympathetic  to  the  personal  pang, 
Close  on  each  separate  knife-stroke, 

yielding  up 
A  whole  life  at  each  wound,  incapable 
Of  deepening,  widening  a  large  lap  of 

life 
To    hold    the  world-full   woe.      The 

human  race 
To  you  means  such  a  child,  or  such  a 

man, 
You  saw  one  morning  waiting  in  the 

cold 
Beside     that     gate,     perhaps.      You 

gather  up 
A  few  such  cases,  and  when  strong 

sometimes 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


23 


Will  write  of  factories  and  of  slaves, 
as  if 

Your  father  were  a  negro,  and  your 
son 

A  spinner  in  the  mills.  All's  yours 
and  you, 

All  colored  with  your  blood,  or  other- 
wise 

Just  nothing  to  you.  Why,  1  call 
you  hard 

To  general  suffering.  Here's  the 
world  half-blind 

With  intellectual  light,  half-brutal- 
ized 

With  civilization,  having  caught  the 
plague 

In  silks  from  Tarsus,  shrieking  east 
and  west 

Along  a  thousand  railroads,  mad  with 
l^ain 

And  sin  too  !  .  .  .  does  one  woman 
of  you  all 

(You  who  weep  easily)  grow  pale  to 
see 

This  tiger  shake  his  cage  ?  Does  one 
of  you 

Stand  still  from  daucing,  stop  from 
stringing  jiearls, 

And  pine  and  die,  because  of  the 
great  sum 

Of  universal  anguish?  Show  me  a  tear 

Wet  as  Cordelia's  in  eyes  bright  as 
yours. 

Because  the  world  is  mad.  You  can- 
not count 

That  you  should  weep  for  this  ac- 
count, not  you! 

You  weep  for  what  you  know.  A  red- 
haired  child 

Sick  in  a  fever,  if  you  touch  him 
once, 

Though  but  so  little  as  with  a  finger- 
tip, 

Will  set  you  weeping;  but  a  million 
sick  .  .  . 

You  could  as  soon  weep  for  the  rule 
of  three 

Or  compound  fractions.  Therefore 
this  same  world 

Uncomprehended  by  you,  must  re- 
main 

Uninfluenced  by  you.  Women  as 
you  are. 

Mere  women,  personal  and  passion- 
ate. 

You  give  us  doating  mothers,  and 
perfect  wives. 

Sublime  Madonnas,  and  enduring 
saints: 


We  get  no  Christ  from  you,  and  verily 
We  shall  not  get  a  poet,  in  my  mind." 

"With  which    conclusion    you    con- 
clude "... 

"But  this: 

That  you,  Aurora,  with  the  large  live 
brow 

And    steady  eyelids,   cannot    conde- 
scend 

To  play  at  art,  as  children  play  at 
swords, 

To  show  a  pretty  spirit,  chiefly  ad- 
mired 

Because  true  action  is  impossible. 

You  never  can  be  satisfied  with  praise 

Which  men  give  women  when  they 
judge  a  book 

Not  as  mere  work,  but  as  mere  wo- 
man's work. 

Expressing  the  comparative  resjject. 

Which    means    the    absolute    scorn. 
'  Oh,  excellent! 

What  grace,  what  facile  turns,  what 
fluent  sweeps, 

What    delicate    discernment  ...  al- 
most thought! 

The  book  does  honor  to  the  sex,  we 
hold. 

Among  our  female  authors  we  make 
room 

For  this  fair  writer,  and  congratulate 

The  country  that  produces  in  these 
times 

Such     women,    competent     to '  .  .  . 
spell." 

"  Stop  there," 

I    answered,    burning    through     his 
thread  of  talk 

With  a  quick  flame    of    emotion,  — 
"  you  have  read 

My  soul,  if  not  my  book,  and  argue 
well 

I  would  not  condescend  .  .  .  we  will 
not  say 

To  such  a  kind  of  praise  (a  worthless 
end 

Is  praise  of  all  kinds),  but  to  such  a 
use 

Of  holy  art  and  golden  life.    I  am 
young. 

And    peradventure  weak  —  you    tell 
me  so  — 

Through  being  a  woman.    And   for 
all  the  rest. 

Take    thanks    for    justice.     I  would 
rather  dance 

At  fairs  on  tight-rope,  till  the  babies 
dropped 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Their  gingerbread  for  joy,  than  shift 

the  types 
For  tolerable  verse,  intolerable 
To  men  who  act  and  suffer.    Better 

far 
Pursue  a  frivolous  trade   by  serious 

means. 
Than  a  sublime  art  frivolously." 

"  You 
Choose  nobler  work  than  either,  O 

moist  eyes, 
And  hurrying  lips,  and  heaving  heart! 

We  are  young, 
Aurora,  you    and    I.     The  world,  — 

look  round,  — 
The  world    we're    come    to    late    is 

swollen  hard 
With  perished  generations  and  their 

sins: 
The  civilizer's  spade  grinds  horribly 
On  dead  men's    bones,   and    cannot 

turn  up  soil 
That's    otherwise    than    fetid.      All 

success 
Proves  partial  failure;    all    advance 

implies 
What's    left    behind;    all    triumph, 

something  crushed 
At    the    chariot-wheels;    all  govern- 
ment, some  wrong; 
And  rich  men  make  the  poor,  who 

curse  the  rich, 
Who     agonize     together,    rich    and 

poor, 
Under  and  over,  in  the  social  spasm 
And  crisis  of  the    ages.    Here's    an 

age 
That  makes  its  own  vocation;   here 

we  have  stepped 
Across  the  bounds  of    time;    here's 

nought  to  see, 
But  just  the  rich  man  and  just  Laza- 
rus, 
And  both  in  torments  with  a  mediate 

giilf, 
Though    not    a   hint    of    Abraham's 

bosom.    Who, 
Being  man,  Aurora,  can  stand  calmly 

by 
And  view  these  things,   and    never 

tease  his  soul 
For  some  great  cure  ?    No  physic  for 

this  grief. 
In  all  the  earth  and  heavens  too  ?  " 

"  You  believe 
In  God,  for  your  part?  —  ay?   that 

He  who  makes 
Can  make  good  things  from  ill  things, 

best  from  worst. 


As  men  plant  tulips  upon  dunghins 

when 
They  wish  them  finest  ?  " 

"  True.    A  death-heat  is 
The  same  as  life-heat,  to  be  accurate ; 
And  in  all  nature  is  no  death  at  all, 
As  men  account  of  death,  so  long  as 

God 
Stands  witnessing  for  life  perpetuallj'. 
By  being  just  God.    That's   abstract 

truth,  I  know, 
Philosophy,  or  sympathy  with  God; 
But  I,  I  sympathize  with  man,  not 

God, 
(I  think  I  was  a  man  for  chiefly  this,) 
And,   when  I  stand  beside  a  dying 

bed, 
'Tis  death  to  me.     Observe:  it  had 

not  much 
Consoled  the  race  of  mastodons  to 

know. 
Before  they  went  to  fossil,  that  anon 
Their  place  would  quicken  with  the 

elephant: 
They  were  not  elephants,  but  masto- 
dons; 
And  I,  a  man,  as  men  are  now,  and 

not 
As  men  may  be  hereafter,  feel  with 

men 
In  the  agonizing  present." 

"Is  it  so," 
I  said,  "  my  cousin  ?    Is  the  world  so 

bad, 
While  I  hear  nothing  of  it  through 

the  trees  ? 
The  world  was  always  evil,  —  but  so 

bad?" 

"So  bad,  Aurora.     Dear,  my  soul  is 

gray 
With  poring  over  the  long  sum  of  ill; 
So  much  for  vice,  so  much  for  discon- 
tent. 
So  much  for  the  necessities  of  power, 
So  much  for  the  connivances  of  fear, 
Coherent  in  statistical  despairs 
With  such  a  total  of  distracted  life  .  .  . 
To  see  it  down  in  figures  on  a  page. 
Plain,    silent,     clear,    as    God    sees 

through  the  earth 
The  sense  of  all  the  graves,  —  that's 

terrible 
For  one  who  is  not  God,  and  cannot 

right 
The    wrong    he    looks    on.    May    I 

choose  indeed 
But  vow  away  my  years,  my  means, 

my  aims, 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


25 


Among  the  helpers,  if  there's  any  help 
In  such  a  social  strait  ?    The  common 

blood 
That  swings  along  my  veins  is  strong 

enough 
To  draw  me  to  this  duty." 

Then  I  spoke  : 
"  I  have  not  stood  long  on  the  strand 

of  life, 
And    these   salt   waters    have    had 

scarcely  time 
To  creep  so  high  up  as  to  wet  my 

feet  : 
I  cannot  judge  these  tides  —  I  shall, 

perhaps. 
A  woman's  always  younger  than   a 

man 
At  equal  years,  because  she  is  disal- 
lowed 
Maturing  by  the  outdoor  sun  and  air. 
And  kept  in  long-clothes  past  the  age 

to  walk. 
Ah,   well  !    I  know  you  men  judge 

otherwise. 
You  think  a  woman  ripens  as  a  peach, 
In  the  cheeks,  chiefly.     Pass  it  to  me 

now^ : 
I'm  young  in  age,  and  younger  still, 

I  think, 
As  a  woman.     But  a  child  may  say 

amen 
To  a  bishop's  prayer,  and  feel  tlie  way 

it  goes. 
And  I,  incapable  to  loose  the  knot 
Of  social  questions,  can  approve,  ap- 
plaud 
August         compassion,         Christian 

thoughts  that  shoot 
Bej'ond  the  vulgar  white  of  personal 

aims. 
Accept  my  teverence." 

There  he  glowed  on  me 
With   all    his  face  and    eyes.     "  No 

other  help?" 
Said  he,  "no  more  than  so  ?  " 

"  What  help  ?  "  I  asked. 
"  You'd  scorn  my  help,  as  Nature's 

self,  you  say. 
Has  scorned  to  put  her  music  in  my 

mouth, 
Because   a  woman's.     Do   you   now 

turn  round 
And  ask  for  w^hat  a  woman  cannot 

give?" 

"  For  what  she  only  can,  I  turn  and 

ask," 
He  answered,  catching  up  my  hands 

in  his, 


And  dropping  on  me  from  his  high- 
eaved  brow 

The  full  weight  of  his  soul.     "  I  ask 
for  love. 

And  that,  she  can  ;  for  life  in  fellow- 
ship 

Through  bitter  duties,  that,  I  know 
she  can  ; 

For  wifehood  —  will  she  ?  " 

"  Now,"  I  said,  "  may  God 

Be  witness  'twixt  us  two  !  "  and  with 
the  word, 

Meseemed   I   floated    into  a  sudden 
light 

Above  his  stature,  —  "am   I  proved 
too  weak 

To  stand  alone,  yet  strong  enough  to 
bear 

Such  leaners  on  my  shoulder  ?  poor 
to  think, 

Yet  rich  enough  to  sympathize  with 
thought  ? 

Incompetent    to  sing,   as   blackbirds 
can. 

Yet  competent  to  love,  like  him  ?  " 

I  paused  ; 

Perhaps    I    darkened,    as    the    light- 
house will 

That  turns  upon  the  sea.     "It's  al- 
ways so. 

Any  thing  does  for  a  wife." 

"  Aurora  dear, 

And  dearly  honored,"  he  pressed  in 
at  once 

With   eager   utterance,   "  you   trans- 
late me  ill. 

I  do  not  contradict  my  thought  of  you, 

Which  is  most  reverent,  with  another 
thought 

Found  less  so.     If  your  sex  is  weak 
for  art, 

(And  I  who  said   so  did  but  honor 
you 

By  using    truth    in  courtship,)  it  is 
strong 

For  life  and  duty.     Place  your  fecund 
heart 

In  mine,  and  let  us  blossom  for  the 
world 

That  wants  love's  color  in  the  gray  of 
time. 

My  talk,  meanwhile,  is  arid  to  you, 
ay. 

Since  all  my  talk  can  only  set  you 
where 

You  look  down  coldly  on  the  arena- 
heaps 

Of  headless   bodies,  shapeless,  indis- 
tinct. 


26 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


The  judgment-angel  scarce  would  find 
his  way 

Through  such  a  heap  of  generalized 
distress 

To  the  individual  man  with  lips  and 
eyes, 

Much   less  Aurora.     Ah,   my  sweet, 
come  down, 

And  hand   in  hand  we'll  go  where 
yours  shall  touch 

These  victims  one  by  one,  till,  one  by 
one, 

The  formless,  nameless  trunk  of  every 
man 

Shall  seem  to  wear  a  head  with  hair 
you  know. 

And  every  woman  catch  your  moth- 
er's face 

To  melt  you  into  passion." 

"  I  am  a  girl," 

I  answered  slowly  :  "  you  do  well  to 
name 

My  mother's  face.    Though    far  too 
early,  alas  ! 

God's  hand  did  interpose   'twixt    it 
and  me, 

I  know  so  much  of  love  as  used  to 
shine 

In  that  face  and    another  ;    just    so 
much. 

No  more,  indeed,  at  all.     I  have  not 
seen 

So  much  love  since,  I  pray  you  par- 
don me, 

As  answers  even  to  make  a  marriage 
with 

In  this  cold  land  of  England.    What 
you  love 

Is  not  a  woman,  Romney,  but  a  cause  : 

You  want  a  helpmate,  not  a  mistress, 
sir  ; 

A  wife  to  help  your  ends,  in  her  no  end . 

Your  cause  is  noble,  your  ends  ex- 
cellent ; 

But  I,  being  most  unworthy  of  these 
and  that, 

Do  otherwise  conceive  of  love.    Fare- 
well!  " 

"Farewell,   Aurora?  you  reject  me 

thus?" 
He  said. 

"  Sir,  you  were  married  long  ago. 
You  have  a  wife  already  whom  you 

love,  — 
Your  social  theory.     Bless  you  both, 

I  say. 
For  my  part,   I    am    scarcely  meek 

enough 


To    be    the    handmaid    of    a    lawful 

spouse. 
Do  I  look  a  Hagar,  think  you  ?  " 

"  So  you  jest." 
"  Nay,  so  I  speak  in  earnest,"  I  re- 
plied. 
"  You  treat  of  marriage  too  much  like, 

at  least, 
A  chief  apostle  :  you  would  bear  with 

you 
A  wife  ...  a   sister  .    .   .  shall   we 

speak  it  out  ?  — 
A  sister  of  charity." 

"  Then  must  it  be. 
Indeed,  farewell  ?    And  was  I  so  far 

wrong 
In    hope    and    in    illusion,    when    I 

took 
The   woman  to  be   nobler  than    the 

man. 
Yourself  the  noblest  woman   in  the 

use 
And  comprehension  of  what  love  is,  — 

love 
That  generates  the  likeness  of  itself 
Through    all    heroic    duties  ?    so   far 

wrong 
In  saying  bluntly,  venturing  truth  on 

love, 
'  Come,    human    creature,    love    and 

work  with  me,' 
Instead  of,  '  Lady,  thou  art  wondrous 

fair, 
And,  where  the  Graces  walk  before, 

the  Muse 
Will  follow  at  the  lightning  of  their 

eyes, 
And  where  the  Muse  walks,  lovers 

need  to  creep: 
Turn  round  and  love  me,  or  I  die  of 

love?'" 

With  quiet  indignation  I  broke  in, 
"  You  misconceive  the  question  like  a 

man. 
Who  sees  a  woman  as  the  comple- 
ment 
Of  his  sex  merely.    You  forget  too 

much 
That   every  creature,   female  as  the 

male. 
Stands  single  in  responsible  act  and 

thought 
As  also  in  birth  and  death.    Whoever 

says 
To  a  loyal  woman,  '  Love  and  work 

with  me,' 
Will  get  fair  answers,  if  the  work  and 

love, 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


27 


Being  good  themselves,  are  good  for 

her,  —  the  best 
She  was  born  for.    Women  of  a  softer 

mood, 
Surprised    by    men    when    scarcely 

awake  to  life. 
Will    sometimes  only  hear  the  first 

word,  love. 
And  catch  up  with  it  any  kind  of 

work, 
Indifferent,  so  that  dear  love  go  with 

it. 
I  do  not  blame  such  women,  though 

for  love 
They  pick  much  oakum:  earth's  fa- 
natics make 
Too  frequently  heaven's  saints.     But 

me  your  work 
Js  not  the  best  for,  nor  your  love  the 

best, 
t^or  able  to  commend    the    kind  of 

work 
For  love's    sake  merely.     Ah !    you 

force  me,  sir. 
To  be  over-bold  in  speaking  of  my- 
self: 
I,  too,  have  my  vocation, — work  to 

do. 
The  heavens  and  earth  have  set  me 

since  I  changed 
My  father's  face  for  theirs,  and,  though 

your  world 
Were  twice  as  wretched  as  you  repre- 
sent. 
Most    serious  work,   most  necessary 

work 
As  any  of  the  economists'.    Reform, 
Make  trade  a  Christian  possibility. 
And     individual    right    no     general 

wrong, 
Wipe  out  earth's  furrows  of  the  thine 

and  mine. 
And  leave  one  green  for  men  to  play 

at  bowls, 
With  innings  for  them  all  !  .  .  .  what 

then,  indeed. 
If  mortals  are  not  greater  by  the  head 
Than  any  of  their  prosperities  ?  what 

then. 
Unless  the  artist  keep  up  open  roads 
Betwixt  the  seen  and  unseen,  burst- 
ing through 
The  best  of  your  conventions  with  his 

best, 
The  speakable,  imaginable  best 
God  bids  him  speak,  to  prove  what 

lies  beyond 
Both    speech    and    imagination  ?     A 

starved  man 


Exceeds  a  fat  beast:  we'll  not  barter, 

sir, 
The  beautiful  for  barley.     And,  even 

so, 
I  hold  you  will  not  compass  your  poor 

ends 
Of  barley-feeding  and  material  ease 
Without  a  poet's  individualism 
To  work  your  universal.    It  takes  a 

soul 
To  move  a  body :  it  takes  a  high-souled 

man 
To  move  the  masses  even  to  a  cleaner 

sty: 
It  takes  the  ideal   to  blow  a  hair'.s- 

breadth  off 
The  dust  of   the  actual.    Ah  !   your 

Fouriers  failed. 
Because  not  poets  enough  to  under- 
stand 
That  life  develops  from  within.     For 

me. 
Perhaps  I  am  not  worthy,  as  you  say, 
Of  work  like  this:  perhaps  a  woman's 

soul 
Aspires,  and  not  creates:  yet  we  as- 
pire. 
And  yet  I'll  try  out  your  perhapses, 

sir, 
And  if  I  fail  .  .  .  why,  burn  me  up 

my  straw 
Like  other  false  works.     I'll  not  ask 

for  grace : 
Your    scorn    is    better,  cousin  Rom- 

ney.     I 
Who  love  my  art  would  never  wish 

it  lower 
To  suit  my  stature.     I  may  love  my 

art. 
You'll  grant  that  even  a  woman  may 

love  art. 
Seeing  that  to  waste  true  love  on  any 

thing 
Is  womanly,  past  question." 

I  retain 
The  very  last  word  which  I  said  that 

day. 
As  you  the  creaking  of  the  door,  years 

past, 
Which  let  upon  you  such  disabling 

news 
You  ever  after  have  been  graver.    He, 
His  eyes,  the  motions  in   his  silent 

mouth. 
Were  fiery  points  on  which  my  words 

were  caught. 
Transfixed  forever  in  my  memory 
For  his  sake,  not  their  own.     And  yet 

I  know 


AURORA    LEIGH. 


I  did  not  love  him  .  .  .  nor  he  me     .  . 

that's  sure  .  .  . 
And  what  I  said  is  unrepented  of, 
As  truth  is  always.    Yet  .  .  .  a  prince- 
ly man  — 
If  hard  to  me,  heroic  for  himself. 
He   bears  down  on  me  through  the 

slanting  years, 
The  stronger  for  the  distance.    If  he 

had  loved, 
Ay,  loved  me,  with  that  retributive 

face,  .  .  . 
I  might  have  been  a  common  woman 

now. 
And  happier,  less  known,  and  less  left 

alone. 
Perhaps  a  better  woman,  after  all. 
With  chubby  children  hanging  on  my 

neck 
To  keep  me  low  and  wise.     Ah  me  ! 

the  vines 
That  hear  such    fruit    are  proud  to 

stoop  with  it. 
The  palm  stands  ui>right  in  a  realm 

of  sand. 

And  I,   who  spoke  the  truth    then, 

stand  upright, 
Still  worthy  of  having  spoken  out  the 

truth. 
By  being  content  I  spoke  it,  though  it 

set 
Him  there,  me  here.    Oh,  woman's 

vile  remorse, 
To  hanker  after  a  mere  name,  a  show, 
A  supposition,  a  potential  love  ! 
Does  every  man  who  names  love  in 

our  lives 
Become  a  power  for  that?    Is  love's 

true  thing 
So  much  best  to  us,  that  what  person- 
ates love 
Is  next  best  ?    A  potential  love  for- 
sooth ! 
I'm  not  so  vile.    No,  no!    He  cleaves, 

I  think. 
This  man,  this  image,  chiefly  for  the 

wrong 
And  shock  he  gave  my  life  in  finding 

me 
Precisely  where  the  devil  of  my  youth 
Had  set  me  on  those  mountain  peaks 

of  hope. 
All  glittering  ^vith  the  dawn-dew,  all 

erect. 
And  famished  for  the  noon,  exclaim- 
ing, while 
I  looked  for  empire  and  much  tribute, 

"  Come, 


I  have  some  worthy  work  for  thee  be- 
low. 

Come,  sweep  my  barns,  and  keep  my 
hospitals. 

And  I  will  pay  thee  with  a  current 
coin 

"Which  men  give  women." 

As  we  spoke,  the  grass 

"Was  trod  in  haste  beside  us,  and  my 
aunt, 

"With  smile  distorted  by  the  sun, — 
face,  voice. 

As  mucli  at  issue  with  the  summer- 
day 

As  if  you  brought  a  candle  out  of 
doors,  — 

Broke  in  with,  "  Romney,  here!  —  My 
child,  entreat 

Your  cousin  to  the  house,  and  have 
your  talk, 

If  girls  must  talk  upon  their  birth- 
days.    Come." 

He  answered  for  me  calmly,  with  pale 
lips 

That  seemed  to  motion  for  a  smile  in 
vain. 

"  The  talk  is  ended,  madam,  where 
we  stand. 

Your  brother's  daughter  has  dismissed 
me  here ; 

And  all  my  answer  can  be  better  said 

Beneath  the  trees  than  wrong  by 
such  a  word 

Your  house's  hospitalities.  Fare- 
well." 

With  that  he  vanished.    I  could  hear 

his  heel 
Ring  bluntly  in  the  lane  as  down  he 

leapt 
The    short  way  from    us.      Then    a 

measured  speech 
Withdrew  me.     "What  means  this, 

Aurora  Leigh  ? 
My  brother's  daughter  has  dismissed 

my  guests?" 

The    lion    in    me    felt    the    keeper's 

voice 
Through  all  its  quivering  dewlaps:  I 

was  quelled 
Before  her,  meekened  to  the  child  she 

knew: 
I  i^rayed  her    pardon,   said    "I  had 

little  thouglit 
To  give  dismissal  to  a  guest  of  hers 
In  letting  go  a  friend  of  mine  who 

came 


I! 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


29 


To  take  me  into  service  as  a  wife,  — 
No  more  than  that,  indeed." 

"  No  more,  no  more  ? 
Pray  Heaven,"  she  answered,  "that 

I  was  not  mad. 
I  could  not  mean  to  tell  her  to  her 

face 
That  Romney  Leigh  had  asked  me  for 

a  wife, 
And  I  refused  him  ?  " 

"Did  he  ask?"  I  said. 
"  I  think  he  rather  stoojied  to  take 

me  up 
For  certain  uses  which  lie  found  to  do 
For   something    called    a  wife.      He 

never  asked." 

"What  stuff!"  she  answered.    "Are 

they  queens,  these  girls  ? 
They    must    have    mantles    stitched 

with  twenty  silks. 
Spread  out  upon  the  ground,  before 

they'll  step 
One  footstep  for  the    noblest    lover 

born." 

"But  I  am  born,"  I  said  with  firm- 
ness, "  I, 

To  walk  another  way  than  his,  dear 
aunt." 

"You  walk,  you  walk!     A  babe  at 

thirteen  months 
Will  walk  as  well  as  you,"  she  cried 

in  haste, 
"  Without  a  steadying  finger.    Why, 

you  child, 
God  help  you  !  you  are  groping  in  the 

dark. 
For  all  this  sunlight.    You  suppose, 

perhaps. 
That  you,  sole  offspring  of  an  opulent 

man. 
Are  rich,  and  free  to  choose  a  way  to 

walk  ? 
You    think,    and    it's    a    reasonable 

thought, 
That  I,  beside,  being  well  to  do  in 

life. 
Will  leave  my  handful  in  my  niece's 

hand 
When  death  shall  paralyze  these  fin- 
gers ?    Pray, 
Pray,  child,  albeit  I  know  you  love 

me  not. 
As  if  you  loved  me,  that  I  may  not 

die; 
For  when  I  die  and  leave  you,  out 

you  go, 


(Unless  I  make  room  for  you  in  my 

grave,) 
Unhoused,  unfed,  my  dear,  poor  broth- 
er's lamb, 
(Ah,  heaven  1   that  pains)  without  a 

right  to  crop 
A  single  blade  of  grass  beneath  these 

trees, 
Or  cast  a  lamb's  small  shadow  on  the 

lawn, 
Unfed,   unfolded.     Ah,   ray  brother, 

here's 
The  fruit  you  planted  in  your  foreign 

loves ! 
Ay,  there's  the  fruit  he  planted !  Never 

look 
Astonished  at  me  with  your  mother's 

eyes. 
For  it  was  they  who  set  you  where 

you  are, 
An  undowered  orphan.     Child,  your 

father's  choice 
Of  that  said  mother  disinherited 
His  daughter,  his  and  hers.    Men  do 

not  think 
Of  sons  and  daughters  when  they  fall 

in  love. 
So  much  more  than  of  sisters:  other- 
wise 
He    would    have   paused    to    ponder 

what  he  did. 
And  shrunk  before  that  clause  in  the 

entail 
Excluding  offspring  by  a  foreign  wife, 
(The  clause  set  up  a  hundred  years 

ago 
By  a  Leigh  who   wedded  a  French 

dancing-girl, 
And  had  his  heart  danced  over  in  re- 
turn;) 
But  this  man  shrank  at  nothing,  never 

thought 
Of  you,  Aurora,  any  more  than  me. 
Y'our  mother  must  have  been  a  pretty 

thing. 
For  all  the  coarse  Italian  blacks  and 

browns. 
To  make  a  good  man,  which  my  broth- 
er was, 
Unchary  of  the  duties  to  his  house; 
But  so  it    fell    indeed.     Our  cousin 

Vane, 
Vane  Leigh,  tlie  father  of  this  llom- 

ney,  wrote. 
Directly  on  your  birth,  to  Italy: 
'  I  ask  your   baby-daughter  for    my 

son. 
In  whom  the  entail  now  merges  by 

the  law. 


AURORA  LEIGTI. 


Betroth  her  to  us  out   of    love,   in- 
stead 
Of  colder  reasons,  and  she  shall  not 

lose 
By  love  or  law  from  henceforth: '  so 

he  wrote. 
A  generous    cousin  was    my  cousin 

Vane. 
Remember  how  he  drew  you  to  his 

knee 
The  year  you  came  here,  just  before 

he  died, 
And  hollowed  out  his  hands  to  hold 

your  cheeks, 
And  wished  them  redder  :   you    re- 
member Vane? 
And  now  his  son,  who  represents  our 

house. 
And  holds  the  fiefs  and  manors  in  his 

place, 
To  whom  reverts  my  pittance  when  I 

die, 
(Except  a  few  books  and  a  pair  of 

shawls)  — 
The  boy  is  generous  like  him,   and 

prepared 
To  carry  out  his  kindest  word  and 

thought 
To  you,  Aurora.     Yes,  a  fine  young 

man 
Is  Romney  Leigh,  although  the  sun 

of  youth 
Has  shone  too  straight  upon  his  brain, 

I  know. 
And  fevered  him  with  dreams  of  doing 

good 
To  good-for-nothing  people.      But  a 

wife 
Will  put  all  right,  and  stroke  his  tem- 
ples cool 
"With  healthy  touches."  .  .  . 

I  broke  in  at  that. 
I  could  not  lift  my  heavy  heart  to 

breathe 
Till  then;  but  then  I  raised  it,  and  it 

fell 
In  broken  words  like  these,  —  "No 

need  to  wait: 
The  dream  of  doing  good  to  .  .  .  me, 

at  least, 
Is  ended,  without  waiting  for  a  wife 
To  cool  the  fever  for  him.     We've 

escaped 
That  danger  —  thank  Heaven  for  it." 
"  You,"  she  cried, 
"  Have  got  a  fever.    What,  I  talk  and 

talk 
An  hour  long  to  you,  I  instruct  you 
how 


You  cannot  eat,  or  drink,  or  stand,  or 

sit, 
Or  even  die,  like  any  decent  wretch 
In  all  this  unroofed  and  unfurnished 

world. 
Without  your  cousin,  and  you  still 

maintain 
There's  room  'twixt  him  and  you  for 

flirting  fans, 
And    running    knots    in    eyebrows? 

You  must  have 
A    pattern     lover     sighing     on    his 

knee  ? 
You  do  not  count  enough    a    noble 

heart 
(Above  book-patterns)  which  this  very 

morn 
Unclosed  itself  in  two  dear  fathers' 

names 
To  embrace  your  orphaned  life  ?   Fie, 

fie  !    But  stay, 
I  write  a  word,  and  counteract  this 

sin." 

She  would  have  turned  to  leave  me, 

but  I  clung. 
"  Oh,  sweet  my  father's  sister,  hear 

my  word 
Before  you  write  yours.    Cousin  Vane 

did  well, 
And  cousin  Romney  well,  and  I  well 

too. 
In  casting  back  with  all  my  strength 

and  will 
The  good  they  meant  me.    O  my  God, 

my  God  ! 
God  meant  me  good,  too,  when  he 

hindered  me 
From  saying  '  yes '  this  morning.    If 

you  write 
A  word,  it  shall  be  '  no.'     I  say  no, 

no ! 
I  tie  up  '  no  '  upon  his  altar-horns 
Qiute  out  of  reach  of  perjury  !    At 

least 
My  soul  is  not  a  pauper  :  I  can  live 
At  least  my  soul's  life,  without  alms 

from  men; 
And  if  it  must  be  in  heaven  instead 

of  earth. 
Let  heaven  look    to    it:     I   am    not 

afraid." 

She  seized  my  hands  with  both  hers, 
strained  them  fast. 

And  drew  her  probing  and  unscrupu- 
lous eyes 

Right  through  me,  body  and  heart. 
"  Yet,  foolish  sweet. 


\ 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


31 


You  love  this  man,    I've  watched  you 

when  he  came, 
And  when  he  went,  and  when  we've 

talked  of  him. 
I  am  not  old  for  nothing;  I  can  tell 
The  weather-signs  of  love:   you  love 

this  man." 

Girls  blush  sometimes  because   they 

are  alive. 
Half  wishing  they  were  dead  to  save 

the  shame. 
The  sudden  blush  devours  them,  neck 

and  brow: 
They  have  drawn  too  near  the  fire  of 

life,  like  gnats. 
And  flare  up  bodily,  wings  and  all. 

What  then  ? 
Who's  sorry  for  a  gnat  ...  or  girl  ? 

I  blushed. 
I  feel  the  brand  upon  my  forehead 

now 
Strike    hot,  sear    deep,    as    guiltless 

men  may  feel 
The  felon's  iron,  say,  and  scorn  the 

mark 
Of  what  they  are  not.    Most  illogical. 
Irrational  nature  of  our  womanhood. 
That  blushes  one  way,  feels  another 

way. 
And  prays,  perhaps,  another.     After 

all. 
We  cannot  be  the  equal  of  the  male. 
Who  rules  his  blood  a  little. 

For  although 
I  blushed  indeed,  as  if  I  loved  the 

man. 
And  her  incisive  smile,  accrediting 
That  treason  of  false  witness  in  my 

blush, 
Did  bow  me  downward  like  a  swathe 

of  grass 
Below  its  level  that  struck  me,  I  at- 
test 
The  conscious  skies  and  all  their  daily 

suns, 
I  think  I  loved  him  not,  —  nor  then, 

nor  since, 
Nor  ever.    Do  we   love  the    school- 
master, 
Being  busy  in  the  woods  ?  much  less, 

being  poor. 
The  overseer  of  the  parish?    Do  we 

keep 
Our  love  to  pay  our  debts  with  ? 

White  and  cold 
I  grew  next  moment.    As  my  blood 

recoiled 
From  that  imputed  ignominy,  I  made 


My  heart  great  with  it.  Then,  at  last, 
I  spoke, 

Spoke  veritable  words,  but  passion- 
ate. 

Too  passionate  perhaps  .  .  .  ground 
up  with  sobs 

To  shapeless  endings.  She  let  fall 
my  hands 

And  took  her  smile  off  in  sedate  dis- 
gust. 

As  peradventure  she  had  touched  a 
snake, — 

A  dead  snake,  mind  I  —  and,  turning 
round,  replied, 

"  We'll  leave  Italian  manners,  if  you 
please. 

I  think  you  had  an  English  father, 
child. 

And  ought  to  lind  it  possible  to  speak 

A  quiet  'yes'  or  'no,'  like  English 
girls. 

Without  convulsions.  In  another 
month 

We'll  take  another  answer,  —  no,  or 
yes." 

With  that,  she  left  me  in  the  garden- 
walk. 

I  had  a  father  !  yes,  but  long  ago,  — 
How  long  it  seemed  that  moment ! 

Oh,  how  far, 
How  far  and  safe,   God,   dost    thou 

keep  thy  saints. 
When  once  gone  from  us  !     We  may 

call  against 
The  lighted  windows  of  thy  fair  June 

heaven, 
Where  all  the  souls  are  happy,  and 

not  one, 
Not  even  my  father,  look  from  work 

or  play 
To  ask,  "  Who  is  it  that  cries  after  us 
Below  there,  in  the  dusk  ?  "    Yet  for- 
merly 
He  turned  his  face  upon   me   quick 

enough, 
If  I  said,  "  Father."   Now  I  might  cry 

loud : 
The  little  lark  reached  higher  with 

his  song 
Than    I    with    crying.      Oh,    alone, 

alone, 
Not  trouTiling  any  in  heaven,  nor  any 

on  earth, 
I    stood    there    in    the    garden,    and 

looked  up 
The  deaf    blue  sky  that  brings  the 

roses  out 
On  such  June  mornings. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


You  who  keep  account 
Of  crisis  and  transition  in  this  life, 
Set  down  the  first  time  Nature  says 

plain  "  no  " 
To  some   "yes"   in  you,  and  walks 

over  you 
In  gorgeous  sweeps  of  scorn.    We  all 

begin 
By  singing  with  the  birds,  and  run- 
ning fast 
"With  June  days,  hand  in  hand;  but 

once,  for  all, 
The  birds  must  sing  against  us,  and 

the  sun 
Strike  down  upon  us  like  a  friend's 

sword  caught 
By  an  enemy  to  slay  us.  while  we 

read 
The  dear  name  on  the  blade  which 

bites  at  us  ! 
That's  bitter  and  convincing.    After 

that, 
We  seldom  doubt  that  something  in 

the  large. 
Smooth  order  of  creation,  though  no 

more 
Than    haply    a    man's    footstep,   has 

gone  wrong. 

Some  tears  fell  down  my  cheeks,  and 

then  I  smiled. 
As  those  smile  who  have  no  face  in 

the  world 
To  smile  back  to  them.     I  had  lost  a 

friend 
In  liomney  Leigh.     The  thing  was 

sure,  —  a  friend 
Who  had  looked  at  me  most  gently 

now  and  then. 
And  spoken  of    my  favorite  books, 

our  books," 
With  such  a  voice  I    Well,  voice  and 

look  were  now 
More  utterly  shut  out  from  me,  I  felt, 
Than    even    my    father's.      Komney 

now  was  turned 
To  a  benefactor,  to  a  generous  man. 
Who  had  tied  himself  to  marry  .  ,  . 

me,  instead 
Of  such  a  woman,  with  low  timorous 

lids 
He  lifted  with  a  sudden  word  one  day, 
And  left,  perhaps,  for  my  sake.    Ah, 

self-tied 
By  a  contract,  male  Iphigenia  bound 
At  a  fatal  Aulis   for  the  winds    to 

change, 
(But  loose  him,  they'll  not  change,) 

he  well  might  seem 


A  little  cold  and  dominant  iri  love  ; 
He  liad  a  right  to  be  dogmatical, 
This  iioor,   good   Romney.     Love  to 

him  was  made 
A  simple  law-clause.    If  I  married 

him, 
I  should  not  dare  to  call  my  soul  my 

own 
Which  so  he  had  bought  and  paid 

for  :  every  thought 
And  every  heart-beat  down  there  in 

the  bill  ; 
Not  one  found  honestly  deductible 
From  any  use  that  pleased  him  !    He 

might  cut 
My  body  into  coins  to  give  away 
Among    his  other  paupers ;    change 

my  sons. 
While  I  stood  dumb  as  Griseld,  for 

black  babes 
Or    piteous    foundlings ;    might    un- 
questioned set 
My  right  hand  teaching  in  the  ragged 

schools, 
My  left  hand  washing  in  the  public 

baths. 
What  time  my  angel  of   the    Ideal 

stretched 
Both  his  to  me  in  vain.     I  could  not 

claim 
The  poor  right  of  a  mouse  in  a  trap  t<? 

squeal, 
And  take  so  much  as  pity  from  my 

self. 

Farewell,  good  Romney  !   if  I  loved 

you  even, 
I  could  but  ill  afford  to  let  you  be 
So  generous  to  me.     Farewell,  friend, 

since  friend 
Betwixt  us  two,  forsooth,  mxist  be  a 

word 
So    heavily  overladen.      And,    since 

help 
Must  come  to  me  from  those  who  lovt 

me  not, 
Farewell,  all  helpers  :    I  must  help 

myself. 
And  am  alone  from  henceforth.  Then 

I  stooped 
And  lifted  the  soiled   garland  from 

■  the  earth. 
And  set  it  on  my  head  as  bitterly 
As     when     the     Spanish     monarch 

crowned  the  bones 
Of  his  dead  love.     So  be  it.    I  pre- 
serve 
That    crown    still,    in    the    drawel 

there  :  'twas  the  first  ; 


i 

i 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


33 


The  rest  are  like  it,  those  Olympian 

crowns 
We  run  for  till  we  lose  sight  of  the 

sun 
In  the  dust  of  the  racing  chariots. 

After  that, 
Before  the  evening  fell,  I  had  a  note. 
Which  ran,  —  "Aurora,  sweet  Chal- 

dsean,  you  read 
My  meaning  backward,  like  your  east- 
ern books, 
While  I  am  from  the  west,  dear.  Read 

me  now 
A  little  plainer.    Did  you  hate  me 

quite 
But  yesterday  ?    I  loved  you  for  my 

part; 
I  love  you.    If  I  spoke  untenderly 
This  morning,  my  beloved,  pardon  it, 
And  comprehend    me    that  I  loved 

you  so 
I  set  you  on  the  level  of  my  soul, 
And  overwashed  you  with  the  bitter 

brine 
Of  some  habitual  thoughts.     Hence- 
forth, my  flower, 
Be  planted  out  of  reach  of  any  such. 
And  lean  the  side  you  iilease  with  all 

your  leaves. 
Write    woman's    verses    and    dream 

woman's  dreams ; 
But  let  me  feel  your  perfume  in  my 

home 
To  make  my  sabbath  after  working- 
days. 
Bloom  out  your  youth  beside  me ;  be 

my  wife." 

I  wrote  in  answer  :  "We  Chaldaeans 

discern 
Still  further  than   ive  read.    I  know 

your  heart, 
And  shut  it  like  the  holy  book  it  is, 
Reserved  for  mild-eyed  saints  to  pore 

upon 
Betwixt    their    prayers    at    vespers. 

Well,  you're  right, 
I  did  not  surely  hate  you  yesterday  ; 
And  yet  I  do  not  love  you  enough 

to-day 
To  wed  you,  cousin  Roraney.    Take 

this  word, 
And  let  it  stop  you  as  a  generous  man 
From    speaking  further.      You    may 

tease,  indeed. 
And  blow  about  my  feelings,  or  my 

leaves  ; 
And  liere's   my  aunt  will  help  you 

with  east  winds. 


And  break  a  stalk,  perhaps,  torment- 
ing me  : 
But  certain  flowers  grow  near  as  deep 

as  trees  : 
And,  cousin,    you'll    not    move    my 

root,  not  you, 
With  all  your  confluent  storms.   Then 

let  me  grow 
Within  my  wayside  hedge,  and  pass 

your  way. 
This  flower  has  never  as  much  to  say 

to  you 
As  the  antique  tomb  which  said  to 

travellers,  '  Pause,' 
'  Siste,    viator.'"      Ending     thus,     I 

sighed. 

The  next  week  passed  in  silence,  so 

the  next, 
And  several  after  :  Romney  did  not 

come. 
Nor  my  aunt  chide  me.     I  lived  on 

and  on, 
A.s  if  my  heart  were  kejit  beneath  a 

glass. 
And  everybody  stood,  all  eyes  and 

ears 
To  see  and  hear  it  tick.     I  could  not 

sit. 
Nor  walk,  nor  take  a  book,  nor  lay  it 

down, 
Nor  sew  on  steadily,  nor  drop  a  stitch 
And  a  sigh  with  it,  but  I  felt  her  looks 
Still  cleaving  to  me,  like  the  sucking 

asp 
To  Cleopatra's  breast,  persistently 
Through  the   intermittent   pantings. 

Being  observed 
When  observation  is  not  sympathy 
Is  just  being  tortured.    If  she  said  a 

word, 
A  "thank  you,"  or  an  "if  it  please 

you,  dear," 
She  meant  a  commination,  or  at  best 
An  exorcism  against  the  devildom 
Which  plainly  held  me.     So  with  all 

the  house. 
Susannah  could  not  stand  and  twist 

my  hair. 
Without  such  glancing  at  the  looking- 
glass 
To  see  my  face  there,  that  she  missed 

the  plait. 
And  John  —  I  never  sent  my  plate  for 

soup, 
Or  did  not  send  it,  but  the  foolish 

John 
Resolved  the  problem,  'twixt  his  nap- 

Idned  thumbs, 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Of  what  was  signified  by  taking  souiJ, 
Or    choosing    mackerel.      Neighbors 

who  dropped  in 
On    morning  visits,   feeling   a    joint 

wrong, 
Smiled  admonition,  sate  uneasily, 
And   talked  with  measured,  empha- 
sized reserve. 
Of  parish  news,  like  doctors  to  the 

sick. 
When  not  called  iu,  —  as  if,  with  leave 

to  speak. 
They  might  say  something.    Nay,  the 

very  dog 
Would  watch  me  from  his  sun-patch 

on  the  floor, 
In  alternation  with  the  large  black  fiy 
Not  yet  in  reach  of  snapping.     So  I 

lived. 

A  Roman  died  so,  —  smeared  with 
honey,  teased 

By  insects,  stared  to  torture  by  the 
noon; 

And  many  patient  souls  'neath  Eng- 
lish roofs 

Have  died  like  Romans.  I,  in  look- 
ing back. 

Wish  only  now  I  had  borne  the 
plague  of  all 

With  meeker  spirits  than  were  rife  at 
Rome. 

For  on  the  sixth  week  the  dead  sea 
broke  up. 

Dashed  suddenly  through  beneath 
the  heel  of  Him 

Who  stands  upon  the  sea  and  earth, 
and  swears 

Time  shall  be  nevermore.  The  clock 
struck  nine 

That  morning  too;  no  lark  was  out 
of  tune; 

The  hidden  farms  among  the  hills 
breathed  straight 

Their  smoke  toward  heaven ;  the  lime- 
tree  scarcely  stirred 

Beneath  the  blue  weight  of  the  cloud- 
less sky. 

Though  still  the  July  air  came  float- 
ing through 

The  woodbine  at  my  window,  iu  and 
out. 

With  touches  of  the  outdoor  coun- 
try news 

For  a  bending  forehead.  There  I 
sate,  and  wishecj 

That  morning-truce  of  God  would 
last  till  eve, 


Or  longer.    "  Sleep,"  I  thought,  "  late 

sleepers;  sleep. 
And  spare  me  yet  the  burden  of  your 

eyes." 

Then  suddenly  a  single  ghastly  shriek 

Tore  upward  from  the  bottom  of  the 
house. 

Like  one  who  wakens  in  a  grave,  and 
shrieks. 

The  still  house  seemed  to  shriek  it- 
self alive. 

And  shudder  through  its  passages 
and  stairs. 

With  slam  of  doors  and  clash  of  bells. 
I  sprang, 

I  stood  up  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 

And  there  confronted  at  my  chamber- 
door 

A  white  face,  shivering,  ineffectual 
lips. 

"  Come,  come  !  "  they  tried  to  utter, 

and  I  went. 
As  if  a  ghost  had  drawn  me  at  the 

point 
Of  a  liery  finger  through  the  uneven 

dark, 
I  went  with  reeling  footsteps  down 

the  stair. 
Nor  asked  a  question. 

There  she  sate,  my  aunt, 
Bolt  upright  in  the  chair  beside  her 

bed. 
Whose  pillow  had  no  dint.    She  had 

used  uo  bed 
For  that  night's  sleeping,  yet  slept 

well.    My  God! 
The    dumb    derision    of    that    gray, 

peaked  face 
Concluded  something  grave  against 

the  sun, 
Which  filled  the   chamber  with    its 

July  burst. 
When  Susan  drew  the  curtains,  igno- 
rant 
Of  who  sate  open-eyed  behind  her. 

There 
She    sate  ...  it    sate  .  .  .  we    said 

"  she  "  yesterday  .  .  . 
And  held  a  letter  with  unbroken  seal. 
As  Susan  gave   it  to  her  hand   last 

night. 
All  night  she  had  held  it.    If  its  news 

referred 
To  duchies  or  to  dunghills,  not  an 

inch 
She'd  budge,  'twas  obvious,  for  such 

worthless  odds ; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


35 


Nor,  though  the  stars  were  suns,  and 
overburned 

Their  spheric  limitations,  swallowing 
up 

Like  wax  the  azure  spaces,  could  they 
force 

Those  open  eyes  to  wink  once.  What 
last  sight 

Had  left  them  blank  and  flat  so,  draw- 
ing out 

The  faculty  of  vision  from  the  roots, 

As  nothing  more,  worth  seeing,  re- 
mained behind  ? 

Were  those  the  eyes  that  watched  me, 

worried  me  ? 
That   dogged  me   up   and   down  the 

hours  and  days, 
A  beaten,  breathless,  miserable  soul  ? 
And  did  I  pray,  a  half-hour  back,  but 

so. 
To  escape  the  burden  of  those  eyes 

.  .  .  those  eyes? 
"Sleep  late,"  I  said? 

Why  now,  indeed,  they  sleep. 
God  answers  sharp  and  sudden  on 

some  prayers. 
And  thrusts  the  thing  we  have  prayed 

for  in  our  face, 
A  gauntlet  with  a  gift  in't.      Every 

wish 
Is  like  a  prayer,  with  God. 

I  had  my  wish, 
To  read  and   meditate    the    thing  I 

would, 
To    fashion    all    my    life    upon     my 

thought, 
And    marry,  or  not  marry.     Hence- 
forth none 
Could  disapprove  me,  vex  me,  hamper 

me. 
Full  ground-room  in  this  desert  new- 
ly made. 
For   Babylon    or    Balbec,    when    the 

breath. 
Now   choked   with  sand,  returns  for 

building  towns. 

The  heir  came  over  on   the    funeral 

day. 
And  we  two  cousins  met  before  the 

dead 
With  two  pale  faces.     Was  it  death, 

or  life. 
That  moved  us  ?    When  the  will  was 

read  and  done. 
The     oificial    guests     and    witnesses 

withdrawn. 
We  rose  up,  in  a  silence  almost  hard. 


And  looked  at  one  another.    Then  I 

said, 
"  Farewell,  my  cousin." 

But  he  touched, just  touched 
My  hatstrings  tied  for  going  (at  the 

door 
The  carriage  stood  to  take  me),  and 

said  low. 
His  voice  a  little  unsteady  through 

his  smile, 
"  Siste,  viator." 

"  Is  there  time,"  I  asked, 
"  In  these  last  days  of  railroads,  to 

stop  short. 
Like  CjEsar's  chariot  (weighing  half  a 

ton,) 
On  the  Appian  road,  for  morals  ?  " 

"  There  is  time," 
He  answered  grave,  "  for  necessary 

words, 
Inclusive,  trust  me,  of  no  epitaph 
On  man  or  act,  my  cousin.     We  have 

read 
A  will  which  gives  you  all  the  per- 
sonal goods 
And  funded  moneys  of  your  aunt." 

"  I  thank 
Her  memory  for  it.     With  three  hun- 
dred pounds, 
We    buy    in    England,    even,    clear 

standing-room 
To  stand    and  work    in.     Only  two 

hours  since 
I  fancied  I  was  poor." 

"  And,  cousin,  still 
You're  richer  than  you  fancy.    The 

will  says, 
Three  hundred  pounds,  and  any  other 

sian 
Of  which  the  said    testatrix  dies  })os- 

sessed. 
1  say  she  died    possessed    of    other 

sums." 

"  Dear  Romney,   need  we  chronicle 
the  jjence  ? 

I'm  richer  than  I  thought :  that's  evi- 
dent. 

Enough  so." 

"  Listen,  rather.    You've  to  do 

With  business  and  a  cousin,"  he  re- 
sumed; 

"And  both,   I    fear,   need    patience. 
Here's  the  fact. 

The    other    sum  (there    is    another 
sum, 

Unspecified  in  any  will  which  dates 

After  possession,  yet  bequeathed  as 
much 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  clearly  as  those  said  tliree  hun- 
dred pounds) 

Is  thirty  thousand.  You  will  have  it 
paid 

When  ?  .  .  .  where  ?  My  duty  trou- 
bles you  with  words." 

He  struck  the  iron  when  the  bar  was 
hot: 

No  wonder  if  my  eyes  sent  out  some 
sparks. 

"Pause  there!  I  thank  you.  You 
are  delicate 

In  glozing  gifts ;  but  I,  who  share  your 
blood, 

Am  rather  made  for  giving,  like  your- 
self, 

Than  taking,  like  your  pensioners. 
Farewell." 

He  stopped  me  with  a  gesture  of  calm 
pride. 

"  A  Leigh,"  he  said,  "gives  largesse, 
and  gives  love, 

But  glozes  never:  if  a  Leigh  could 
gloze. 

He  would  not  do  it,  moreover,  to  a 
Leigh, 

With  blood  trained  up  along  nine  cen- 
turies 

To  hound  and  hate  a  lie  from  eyes 
like  yours. 

And  now  we'll  make  the  rest  a.s  clear. 
Your  aunt 

Possessed  these  moneys." 

"  You  will  make  it  clear. 

My  cousin,  as  the  honor  of  us  both, 

Or  one  of  us  si^eaks  vainly.  That's 
not  I. 

My  avint  possessed  this  sum  —  inher- 
ited 

From  whom,  and  when  ?  Bring  docu- 
uments,  prove  dates." 

"  Why,  now  indeed  you  throw  your 

bonnet  off 
As  if  you  liad  time  left  for  a  loga- 
rithm ! 
The  faith's  the  want.    Dear  cousin, 

give  me  faith, 
And  you  shall  walk  this   road  with 

silken  shoes. 
As  clean  as  any  lady  of  our  house 
Supposed  the  proudest.    Oh,  I  com- 

preheud 
The  whole  position  from  your  point 

of  sight. 
I  oust  you  from  your  father's  halls 

and  lauds, 


And  make  you  poor  by  getting  rich  — 
that's  law; 

Considering  which,  in  common  cir- 
cumstance 

You  would  not  scruple  to  accept  from 
me 

Some  compensation,  some  sufficiency 

Of  income  —  that  were  justice;  but, 
alas! 

I  love  you  —  that's  mere  nature;  you 
reject 

My  love  —  that's  nature  also ;  and  at 
once 

You  cannot,  from  a  suitor  disallowed, 

A  hand  thrown  back,  as  mine  is,  into 
yours. 

Receive  a  doit,  a  farthing,  —  not  for 
the  world! 

That's  woman's  etiquette,  and  obvi- 
ously 

Exceeds  the  claim  of  nature,  law,  and 
right. 

Unanswerable  to  all.    I  grant,  you  see, 

The  case  as  you  conceive  it;  leave 
you  room 

To  sweep  your  ample  skirts  of  wo- 
manhood. 

While,  standing  humbly  squeezed 
against  the  wall, 

I  own  myself  exchided  from  being 
just, 

Restrained  from  paying  indubitable 
debts. 

Because  denied  from  giving  you  my 
soul. 

That's  my  misfortune.      I  submit  to  it 

As  if,  in  some  more  reasonable  age, 

'Twould  not  be  less  inevitable. 
Enough. 

You'll  trust  me,  cousin,  as  a  gentle- 
man, 

To  keep  your  honor,  as  you  count  it, 
pure. 

Your  scruples  (just  as  if  I  thought 
them  wise) 

Safe,  and  inviolate  from  gifts  of 
mine." 

I  answered  mild  but  earnest:  "  I  be- 
lieve 

In  no  one's  honor  which  another 
keeps. 

Nor  man's  nor  woman's.  As  I  keep, 
myself. 

My  truth  and  my  religion,  I  depute 

No  father,  though  I  had  one  this  side 
death. 

Nor  brother,  though  I  had  twenty, 
much  less  you. 


-I     —  I  ■  I  ^ 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


37 


Though  twice  my  cousin,  and  once 
Romney  Leigh, 

To  keep  my  honor  pure.     You   face 
to-day 

A  man  who  wants  instruction,  mark 
me,  not 

A  woman  who  wants  protection.     As 
to  a  man, 

Show  manhood,   speak    out    plainly, 
be  precise 

"With  facts  and  dates.     My  aunt  in- 
herited 

This  sum,  you  say  "  — 

"  I  said  slie  died  possessed 

Of  this,  dear  cousin." 

"  Not  by  heritage. 

Thank  you:  we're  getting  to  the  facts 
at  last. 

Perhaps  she  played  at  commerce  with 
a  ship 

Which  cauiG  in  heavy  with  Austra- 
lian gold  ? 

Or  touched  a  lottery  with  her  tinger- 
end, 

AVhich  tumbled  on  a  sudden  into  her 
lap 

Some  old  Rhine  tower  or  principal- 
ity? 

Perhajis  she  had  to  do  with  a  marine 

Sub-transatlantic  railroad  which  pre- 
pays 

As  well  as  presupposes  ?  or  perhaps 

Some  stale  ancestral  debt  was  after- 
paid 

By  a  hundred  years,  and  took  her  by 
surprise  ? 

You  shake  your  head,  my  cousin:   I 
guess  ill." 

"  You  need  not  guess,  Aurora,  nor  de- 
ride : 

The  truth  is  not  afraid  of  hurting  you. 

You'll  find  no  cause  in  all  your  scru- 
ples, why 

Your  aunt  should  cavil  at  a  deed  of 
gift 

'Twixt  her  and  me." 

"Ithought  so  — ah!  a  gift." 

"You  naturally  thought  so,"  he  re- 
sumed. 

"  A  very  natural  gift." 

"  A  gift,  a  gift! 

Her  individual  life    being    stranded 
high 

Above    all  want,    approaching    opu- 
lence, 

Too  haughty  was  she    to    accept    a 
gift 


"Without  some  ultimate  aim.     Ah,  ah, 

I  see! — 
A    gift     intended     plainly    for    her 

heirs. 
And  so  accepted  ...  if  accepted  .  .  . 

ah, 
Indeed  that  might  be:  I  am  snared 

perhaps 
Just  so.    But,  cousin,  shall  I  pardon 

you. 
If  thus  you  have  caught  me  with  a 

cruel  springe?  " 

He    answered    gently,    "  Need    you 
tremble  and  pant 

Like  a  netted  lioness  ?    Is't  my  fault, 
mine, 

That  you're  a  grand  wild  creature  of 
the  woods, 

And  hate  the  stall  built  for  j-ou?  Any 
way. 

Though  triply  netted,  need  you  glare 
at  me  ? 

I  do  not  hold  the  cords  of  such  a  net: 

You're  free  from  me,  Aurora." 

"  Now  may  God 

Deliver  me    from    this  strait !    This 
gift  of  yours 

Was    tendered  .  .  .  when  ?  accepted 
.  .  .  when  ?  "  I  asked. 

"A    month  ...  a    fortnight    since? 
Six  weeks  ago 

It  was  not  tendered:  by  a  word  she 
dropped 

I  know  it  was   not  tendered  nor  re- 
ceived. 

When  was  it  ?    Bring  your  dates." 

"  What  matters  when  ? 

A  half-hour  ere  she  died,  or  a  half- 
year. 

Secured  the  gift,  maintains  the  heri- 
tage 

Inviolable  with  law.     As  easy  pluck 

The  golden  stars  from  heaven's  em- 
broidered stole 

To  pin  them  on  the  gray  side  of  this 
earth, 

As    make    you     poor    again,    thank 
God  ! " 

"  Not  poor 

Nor  clean  again  from  henceforth,  you 
thank  God  ? 

Well,  sir  —  I  ask  you  ...  I  insist  at 
need  .  .  . 

Vouchsafe  the  special  date,  the  spe- 
cial date." 

"  The  day  before  her  death-day,"  he 
replied, 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


"  The  gift  was  in  lier  hands.    We'll 
find  that  deed, 

And  certify  that  date  to  you." 

As  one 

Who  has  climbed  a  mountain-height, 
and  carried  up 

His  own  heart  climbing,  panting,  in 
his  throat 

With    the  toil  of    the  ascent,  takes 
breath  at  last, 

Looks   back  in  triumph,  so  I   stood 
and  looked. 

"  Dear    cousin    Romney,    we    have 
reached  the  toji 

Of  this  steep  question,  and  may  rest, 
I  think. 

But  first,  I  pray  jou  pardon  that  the 
shock 

And    surge    of    natural    feeling    and 
event 

Has  made  me  oblivious  of  acquaint- 
ing you 

That  this  —  this  letter  (unread,  mark, 
still  sealed) 

Was  found  infolded  in  the  poor  dead 
hand. 

That  sjiirit  of  hers  had  gone  beyond 
the  address, 

Which  could  not  find  her,  though  you 
wrote  it  clear. 

I  know  your  writing,  Romney, —  rec- 
ognize 

The  oisen-hearted  A,  the  liberal  sweep 

Of  the  (t.    Now  listen.    Let  us  under- 
stand : 

You  will  not  find  that  famous  deed 
of  gift, 

Unless  you  find  it  in  the  letter  here. 

Which,  not  being  mine,  I  give  you 
back.    Refuse 

To  take  the  letter  ?    Well,  then,  you 
and  I, 

As  writer  and  as  heiress,  open  it 

Together,    by  your    leave.      Exactly 
so: 

The  words  in  which  the  noble  offer- 
ing's made 

Are   nobler  still,    my    cousin;  and   i 
own 

The  i^roudest  and  most  delicate  heart 
alive. 

Distracted  from  the  measure  of  the 
gift 

By  such  a  grace  in  giving,  might  ac- 
cejit 

Your  largesse  without  thinking  any 
more 

Of  the  burthen  of  it  than  King  Solo- 
mon 


Considered,  when  he  wore  his  holy 
ring 

Charactered  over  with  the  ineffable 
spell. 

How  many  carats  of  fine  gold  made 
up 

Its  money-value.     So  Leigh  gives  to 
Leigh  ! 

Or  rather  might  have  given,  observe, 
—  for  that's 

The    point  we    come    to.     Here's    a 
proof  of  gift; 

But    here's  no  proof,   sir,  of    accep- 
tancy. 

But,  rather,  disjiroof.    Death's  black 
dust,  being  blown, 

Infiltrated  through  every  secret  fold 

Of  this  sealed  letter  by  a  puff  of  fate. 

Dried    up    forever  the    fresh-written 
ink, 

Annulled    the    gift,    disutilized    the 
grace, 

And  left  these  fragments." 

As  I  spoke,  I  tore 

The  paper  uyi  and  down,  and  down 
and  up, 

And  crosswise,  till  it  fluttered  fi'om 
my  hands, 

As  forest-leaves,   strijijied  suddenly, 
and  rajit 

By  a  whirlwind    on   Valdarno,  drop 
again ,  — 

Drop  slow,  and  strew  the  melancholy 
ground 

Before  the  amazed  hills  .  .  .  why  so, 
indeed, 

I'm  writing  like   a  poet,   somewhat 
large 

In  the  type  of  the  image,  and  exag- 
gerate 

A  small  thing  with  a  great  thing,  top- 
ping it; 

But  then  I'm  thinking  how  his  eyes 
looked,  his. 

With  what  despondent  and  suri>rised 
rejiroach ! 

I  think  the  tears  were  in  them  as  he 
looked; 

I  think  the  manlv  mouth  just  trem- 
bled.    Then 

He  broke  the  silence. 

"  I  may  ask,  perhaps. 

Although  no  stranger  .  .  .  only  Rom- 
ney Leigh, 

AVhich  means  still  less  .  .  .  than  Vin- 
cent Carrington, 

Your  iilaus  in  going  henoe,  and  where 
you  go. 

This  cannot  he  a  secret." 


I     ^m  I  ■-♦-^^' 


'  As  I  spoke  I  tore  the  paper  up  and  down 

—  till  it  fluttered  from  my  hands."  —  Page  3S, 


'  or  Tw: 


AURORA   LEIGB. 


"  All  my  life 
Is  open  to  you,  cousin.     I  go  hence 
To  London,  to  the  gathering-place  of 

soiils, 
To  live  mine  straight  out.  vocally,  in 

books ; 
Harmoniously  for  others,  if  indeed 
A  woman's  soul,  like  man's.  l>e  wide 

enough 
To  carry  the  whole  octave  (that's  to 

prove); 
Or,  if  I  fail,  still  purely  for  myself. 
Pray  God  be  with  me,  Roraney." 

"  Ah,  poor  child  ! 
"Who  flglit  against  the  mother's  'tiring 

liand, 
And  choose   the    headsman's.      May 

God  change  hi.s  world 
For  your  sake,  sweet,  and  make   it 

mild  as  heaven, 
And  juster  than  I  have  found  you." 

But  I  paused. 
■■  And  von,  my  cousin  ?  " 

"  i,"  lie  said  —  "  you  ask  ? 
You  care  to  ask  ?    Well,  girls  have 

curious  minds. 
And    fain   would    know   the    end    of 

every  thing, 
Of  cousins,  therefore,  with  the  rest. 

For  me, 
Aurora,  I've  my  work:  yon  know  my 

work : 
And,  having  missed   this   year  some 

personal  hope. 
I  must  beware  the  rather  that  I  miss 
No  reasonable  duty.     While  you  sing 
Your  happy  pastorals  of  the   meads 

and  trees, 
Bethink  you  tliat  I  go  to  impress  and 

prove 
On  stifled  brains  and  deafened  ears, 

stunned  deaf, 
Crushed  dull  with  grief,  that  nature 

sings  itself. 
And  needs  no  mediate  poet,  lute,  or 

voice 
To  make  it  vocal.     While  you  ask  of 

men 
Your  audience,  I  may  get  their  leave, 

perhaps. 
For  hungry  orphans  to  say  audibly, 
'  We're  hungry,  see  : '  for  T)eaten  and 

bullied  wives 
To  hold  their  unweancd  babies  up  in 

sight. 
Whom  orphanage  would  better  ;  and 

for  all 
To  speak  and  claim  their  portion  .  .  . 

bv  no  means 


Of  the  soil  .  .  .  but  of  the  sweat  in 

tilling  it ; 
Since  this  is  nowadays  turned  privi- 
lege. 
To  have  only  God's  curse  on  ns,  and 

not  man's. 
Such  work  I  have  for  doing,  elbow- 
deep 
In   social  problems,  as  yon  tie  your 

rhymes, 
To   draw    my    uses    to    cohere  Avith 

needs. 
And  bring  the  uneven  world  back  to 

its  round, 
Or,  failing  so  mncli,  fill  up,  bridge  at 

least 
To    smoother    issues,   some  abysmal 

cracks 
And  feuds  of   earth   intestine   heats 

have  made 
To   keep  men  separate,   using  sorry 

shifts 
Of     hospitals,     almshouses,      infant 

schools, 
And  other  practical   stuff  of  partial 

good 
You  lovers  of  the  beautiful  and  whole 
Despise  by  system." 

"  I  despise  ?    The  scorn 
Is   yours,  my  cousin.     Poets  become 

such 
Through  scorning  nothing.     You  de- 
cry them  for 
The  good  of  beauty  sung  and  taught 

by  them  ; 
While    they    respect    your    practical 

partial  good 
As    being   a    part    of    beauty's    self. 

Adieu  ! 
When  God  helps  all  the  workers  for 

his  world. 
The  singers  shall  have  help  of  him, 

not  last." 

He  smiled  as  men  smile  when  they 

will  not  speak 
Because   of  something  bitter  in  the 

thought ; 
And  still  I  feel  his  melancholy  eyes 
Look  judgment  on  me.    It  is  seven 

years  since. 
I   know  not  if   'twas   jiity  or   'twas 

scorn 
Has     made    them    so    far-reaching: 

judge  it,  ye 
Who  have  had  to  do  with  pity  7uore 

than  love. 
And  scorn  than  hatred.     T  am  used. 

since  then. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


To  other  ways  from  equal  men.  But 
so, 

Even  so,  we  let  go  hands,  my  cousin 
and  I, 

And  in  between  us  rushed  the  torrent- 
world 

To  blanch  our  faces  like  divided 
rocks, 

And  bar  forever  mutual  sight  and 
touch. 

Except  through  swirl  of  spray  and  all 
that  roar. 


THIRD    BOOK. 

"  To-day  thou  girdest  up  thy  loins 

thyself, 
And    goest    where    thou    wouldest : 

presently 
Others    shall    gird    thee,"    said    the 

Lord,  "  to  go 
Where  thou  wouldst  not."    He  spoke 

to  Peter  thus, 
To  signify  the  death  which  he  should 

die 
When  crucified  head  downward. 

If  he  spoke 
To  Peter  then,  he  speaks  to  us  the 

same. 
The  word  suits  many  different  mar- 
tyrdoms. 
And  signifies  a  multiform  of  death. 
Although  we  scarcely  die  apostles,  we, 
And  have  mislaid  the  keys  of  heaven 

and  earth. 

For  'tis  not  in  mere  death  that  men 

die  most; 
And,   after  our  first   girding  of    the 

loins 
In  youth's  fine  linen  and  fair  broidery 
To  run  up  hill  and  meet  the  rising 

sun, 
We  are  apt  to  sit  tired,  patient  as  a 

fool, 
While  others  gird  us  with  the  violent 

bands 
Of  social  figments,  feints,  and  formal- 
isms, 
Reversing  our  straight  nature,  lifting 

up 
Our  base  needs,  keeping  down  our 

lofty  thoughts. 
Head  downward  on   the  cross-sticks 

of  the  world. 


Yet  he  can  pluck  us  from  that  shame- 
ful cross. 

God,  set  our  feet  low  and  our  forehead 
high, 

And  show  us  how  a  man  was  made  to 
walk  ! 

Leave  the  lamp,  Susan,  and  go  up  to 

bed  : 
The  room  does  very  well.    I  have  to  ' 

write 
Beyond  the  stroke  of  midnight.    Get 

away  : 
Your  steps,   forever   buzzing  in    the 

room. 
Tease   me    like  gnats.    Ah,  letters  ! 

Throw  them  down 
At  once,  as  I  must  have  them,  to  be 

sure. 
Whether  I  bid  you  never  bring  me 

such 
At  such  an  hour,  or  bid  you.     No  ex- 
cuse : 
You  choose  to  bring  them,  as  I  choose, 

perhaps, 
To  throw  them  in  the  fire.    Now  get 

to  bed. 
And    dream,    if    possible,  I    am  no( 

cross. 

Why,  what  a  i^ettish,  petty  thing  ] 


grow 


A  mere,  mere  woman,  a  mere  flaccid 
nerve, 

A  kerchief  left  out  all  night  in  the 
rain. 

Turned  soft  so, — overtasked  and  over- 
strained 

And  overlived  in  this  close  London 
life. 

And  yet  I  should  be  stronger. 

Never  burn 

Your  letters,  poor  Aurora  ;  for  they 
stare 

With  red  seals  from  the  table,  saying 
each, 

"  Here's   something  that  you    know 
not."     Out,  alas  ! 

'Tis  scarcely  that  the  world's  more 
good  and  wise. 

Or  even  straighter  and   more  conse- 
quent. 

Since  yesterday   at    this    time;    yet, 
again. 

If  but  one  angel  spoke  from  Ararat, 

I  should  be  very  sorry  not  to  hear: 

So  open  all  the  letters,  let  me  read. 

Blanche     Ord,     the    writer     in     the 
"Lady's  Fan," 


[-♦-•-•H 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


41 


Requests  my  judgmeut  on  .  .  .  that, 

afterwards. 
Kate  Ward  desires  the  model  of  my 

cloak, 
And  signs,  "  Elisha  to  you."     Priugle 

Sharpe 
Presents  his   work   on   "  Social  Con- 
duct," craves 
A    little    money    for    his     pressing 

debts  .  .  . 
From  me,  who  scarce  have  money  for 

my  needs; 
Art's  fiery  chariot  which  we  journey 

in 
Being  apt  to  singe  our  singing-robes 

to  holes. 
Although  you  ask  me  for  my  cloak, 

Kate  Ward. 
Here's  Rudgely  knows  it,  editor  and 

scribe: 
He's    "  forced    to    marry   where    his 

heart  is  not, 
Because  the  purse  lacks  where  he  lost 

bis  heart." 
Ah  — ■  lost  it  because  no  one  ijicked  it 

up: 
That's  really  loss   (and  passable  im- 
pudence). 
My  critic  Hammond  flatters  prettily, 
And  wants  another  volume  like  the 

last. 
My  critic  Belfair  wants  another  book 
Entirely  different,   which    will    sell, 

(and  live  ?) 
A  striking  book,  yet  not  a  startling 

book. 
The  public  blames  originalities, 
(You   must    not    pump    spring-water 

unawares 
Upon  a  gracious  public  full  of  nerves :) 
Good  things,  not  subtle,  new  yet  or- 
thodox. 
As  easy  reading  as  the  dog-eared  page 
That's  fingered  by  said  public  fifty 

years. 
Since    first    taught    spelling    by    its 

grandmother, 
And  yet  a  revelation  in  some  sort : 
That's  hard,  my  critic  Belfair.     So  — 

what  next? 
My  critic  Stokes  objects  to  abstract 

thoughts. 
"  Call  a  man  John,  a  woman  Joan," 

says  he 
"  And  do  not  prate  so  of  humanities :  " 
Whereat    I    call    my    critic    simply 

Stokes. 
My  critic    Jobson  recommends  more 

mirth. 


Because  a  cheerful  genius  suits  the 

times. 
And  all  true  poets  laugh  unquencha- 

bly 
Like  Shakspeare  and  the  gods.   That's 

very  hard. 
The  gods  may  laugh,  and  Shakspeare; 

Dante  smiled 
With  such  a  needy  heart  on  two  pale 

lips. 
We    cry,     "  Weeji,    rather,    Dante." 

Poems  are 
Men,  if  true  i^oems;    and  who  dares 

exclaim 
At  any  man's  door,  "Here,  'tis  un- 
derstood 
The  thunder  fell  last  week  and  killed 

a  wife. 
And  scared  a  sickly  husband:  what 

of  that? 
Get    np,   be  merry,   shout,  and  claji 

your  hands. 
Because  a  cheerful  genius  suits  the 

times  ? 
None  says  so  to  the  man ;  and  why, 

indeed. 
Should  any  to  the  ijoem  ?    A  ninth 

seal ; 
The  apocalypse  is  drawing  to  a  close. 
Ha  —  this  from   Vincent   Carrington, 

—  '*  Dear  friend, 
I  want  good  counsel.    Will  you  lend 

me  wings 
To  raise  me  to  the  subject  in  a  sketch 
I'll  bring    to-morrow  —  may  I?  —  at 

eleven  ? 
A  poet's  only  born  to  turn  to  use, 
So  save  you  !  for  the  world  .  .  .  and 

Carrington." 
(Writ  after.)    "Have  you  heard    of 

Romney  Leigh, 
Beyond  what's  said  of  him  in  news- 
papers, 
His  phalansteries  there,  his  speeches 

here, 
His  pamphlets,  pleas,  and  statements 

everywhere  ? 
He  drojjped  me  long  ago ;  but  no  one 

droits 
A  golden  apple,  though,  indeed,  one 

day 
You   hinted   that,  but  jested.     Well, 

at  least 
You  know  Lord  Howe,  who  sees  him 

.  .  .  whom  he  sees. 
And  you  see,  and  I  hate  to  see,  —  for 

Howe 
Stands  high  upon  the  brink  of  theo- 
ries, 


AUROEA   LEIGH. 


Observes    the    swimmers,   and  cries, 

'  Very  fine  ! ' 
But  keeps  dry  linen  equally,  —  unlike 
That     gallant     Lreaster,      Romney. 

Strange  it  is, 
Such  sudden  madness  seizing  a  young 

man 
To  make  earth  over  again,  Avhile  I'm 

content 
To  make  the  jiictures.    Let  me  bring 

the  sketch: 
A  tiptoe  Danae,  overbold  and  hot, 
Both  arms  aflame  to  meet  her  wish- 
ing Jove 
Halfway,  and  burn  him  faster  down; 

the  face 
And  breasts  upturned  and  straining, 

the  loose  locks 
All  glowing  with  the  auticii^atedgold. 
Or   here's  another  on   the   self-same 

theme. 
She   lies  here,  flat   iij^on  her  jirison- 

floor. 
The  long  hair  swathed  about  her  to 

the  heel 
Like  wet  seaweed.     Yon    dimly  see 

her  through 
The  glittering  haze  of  that  prodigious 

rain, 
Half  blotted  out  of  nature  by  a  love 
As    heavy  as  fate.      I'll    bring   you 

either  sketch. 
I  think,  myself,  the  second  indicates 
More  passion." 

Surely.     Self  is  i>ut  away, 
And  calm  -with  abdication.     She    is 

Jove, 
And  no  more  Danae  —  greater  thus. 

Perhaps 
The  painter  symbolizes  unaware 
Two  states   of    the    recipient    artist- 
soul. 
One,  forward,  jiersonal,  wanting  rev- 
erence, 
Becavise    aspiring    only.      We'll    be 

calm, 
And    know,    that,   when   indeed   our 

Joves  come  down, 
We  all  turn  stiller  than  we  liave  ever 

been. 

Kind   Vincent    Carrington.      I"ll    let 

him  come. 
He  talks  of  Florence,  and  may  say  a 

word 
Of    something   as   it    chanced    seven 

years  ago,  — 
A   hedgehog  in   the  ])atb,  or  a  hime 

bird, 


In  those  green  country  walks,  in  that 
good  time 

When  certainlv  I  was  so  misera- 
ble ..  . 

I  seem  to  haA^e  missed  a  blessing  ever 
since. 

The  music  soars  within  the  little  lark. 

And  the  lark  soars.  It  is  not  thus 
with  men. 

We  do  not  make  our  j^laces  with  our 
strains, 

Content,  while  they  rise,  to  remain 
behind 

Alone  on  earth,  instead  of  so  in  heav- 
en. 

No  matter:  I  bear  on  my  broken  tale. 

When    Romney    Leigh    and    I    had 

l^arted  thus, 
I  took  a  chamber  tip  three  flights  of 

stairs 
Not  far  from  being  as  steep  as  some 

larks  climb, 
And  there,  in  a  certain  house  in  Ken- 
sington, 
Three  years  I  lived  and  Avorked.     Get 

leave  to  work 
In  this  Avorld  —  'tis  the  best  vou  get 

at  all ; 
For  God,  in  cur-sing,  gives  ns  better 

gifts 
Than  men  in  benediction.     God  savs, 

"  Sweat 
For  foreheads:  "  men  say,  "  CroAvns." 

And  so  we  are  crowned, 
Ay,  gashed  by  some  tormenting  circle 

of  steel 
Which    snaps   with   a  secret    sj^ring. 

Cret  work,  get  work  ! 
Be  sure  'tis  better  than  what  a^ou  Avork 

to  get. 

Serene,  and  unafraid  of  solitude, 

I  worked    the    short    days   out,   and 

Avatched  the  sun 
On  lurid  morns  or  monstrous  after- 
noons 
(Like  some  Druidic  idol's  fiery  brass, 
With    fixed    unflickcring    outline    of 

dead  heat. 
From  Avliich  the   blood   tpf    Avretches 

jient  inside 
Seems  oozing  forth  to  incarnadine  the 

air) 
Push  out  through  fog  Avith  his  dilated 

disk. 
And  startle  the  slant  roofs  and  cliini- 

ney-pots 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


With  splashes  of  fierce  color.    Or  I 

saw 
Fog  only  —  the  great  tawny  weltering 

fog  — 
Involve  the  passive  city,  strangle  it 
Alive,  and  draw  it  off  into  the  void,  — 
Spires,  bridges,  streets,  and  s(]nar('S,  — 

as  if  a  sponge 
Had  wiped  out  London,  or  as  noon 

and  night 
Had    clapped    together,   and    utterly 

struck  out 
The  intermediate  time,  undoing  them- 
selves 
In  the  act.    Your  city  poets  see  such 

things 
Not    desi^icable.     Mountains    of    the 

south, 
AVhen,  drunk  and  mad  with  elemental 

wines 
They  rend    the    seamless  mist,   and 

stand  tip  bare. 
Make  fewer  singers,  haply.     No  one 

sings, 
Descending     Sinai:     on     Parnassus- 
mount 
You  take  a  mule  to  climb,  and  not  a 

muse, 
Except  in  fable   and   figure:   forests 

chant 
Their    anthems    to    themselves,    and 

leave  you  dumb. 
But  sit  in  London  iit  the  day's  de- 
cline, 
And     view    the    city   perish    in    the 

mist 
Like    Pharaoh's    armaments    in    the 

deep  Red  Sea, 
The  chariots,  horsemen,  footmen,  all 

the  host, 
Sucked  down  and  choked  to  silence  — 

then,  surprised 
By  a  sudden  sense  of  vision  and  of 

tune, 
A'ou  feel  as  conquerors,  though  you 

did  not  fight ; 
And  you  and  Israel's  other  singing 

girls, 
Ay,  iviiriam  with  them,  sing  the  song 

you  choose. 

I  worked  with  patience,  ■which  means 
almost  power. 

I  <lid  some  excellent  things  indiffer- 
ently. 

Some  bad  things  excellently.  Both 
were  praised, 

The  latter  loudest.  And  by  .such  a 
time 


That  I  myself  liad  set  them  down  as 

sins 
Scarce  worth  the  price  of  sackcloth, 

week  by  week 
Arrived  some  letter  through  the  sedu- 
lous i^ost. 
Like  these  I've  read,  and  yet  dis.simi- 

lar. 
With  pretty  maiden  seals,  —  initials 

twined 
Of  lilies,  or  a  heart  marked  Emily, 
(Convicting  Emily  of  being  all  heart;) 
Or  rarer  tokens  from  young  bache- 
lors. 
Who  wrote    from    college  with    the 

same  goosequill, 
Sujjpose,  they  had  just  been  plucked 

of,  and  a  snatch 
From    Horace,    "  Collegisse    juvat," 

'set 
l'l>on  the  first  page.    Many  a  letter, 

signed 
Or  unsigned,  showing  the  writers  at 

eighteen 
Had  lived  too  long,  although  a  muse 

should  help 
Their  dawn    liy   holding    candles,  — 

compliments 
To  smile  or  sigh  at.     Such  could  pass 

with  me 
No  more  than  coins  from  Moscow  cir- 
culate 
At  Paris:   would  ten  roubles  Vmy  a 

tag 
Of  ribbon  on  the  boulevard,  worth  a 

sou  ? 
I  smiled  that  all   this  youth  should 

love  me,  sighe<l 
That  such  a  love  could  scarcely  raise 

them  up 
To  love  what  was  more  worthy  than 

myself; 
Then  sighed  again,  again,  less  genei'- 

ously. 
To  think  the  very  love  they  lavished 

so 
Proved  me  inferior.    Tlie  strong  loved 

me  not, 
And  he  .  .  .  my  cousin  Romney  .  .  . 

did  not  write. 
I  felt  the  silent  finger  of  his  scorn 
Prick  every  bubble   of  my  frivolous 

fame 
As  my  breath  blew  it,  and  resolve  it 

back 
To  the  air  it  came  from.     Oh,  I  justi- 
fied 
The    measure  lie  had   taken  of    my 

height : 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


The  thing  was  plain  —  he  was  not 
wrong  a  line  ; 

I  played  at  art,  made  thrusts  with  a 
toy-sword, 

Amused  the  lads  and  maidens. 

Came  a  sigh 

Deep,  hoarse  with  resolution,  —  I 
would  work 

To  better  ends,  or  play  in  earnest. 
"  Heavens, 

I  think  I  should  be  almost  popu- 
lar 

If  this  went  on!" — I  ripped  my 
verses  up. 

And  found  no  blood  upon  the  rapier's 
point ; 

The  heart  in  them  was  just  an  em- 
bryo's heart, 

Which  never  yet  had  beat,  that  it 
should  die; 

Just  gasijs  of  make-believe  galvanic 
life; 

Mere  tones,  inorganized  to  any  tune. 

And    yet  I  felt    it    in  me  where  it 

burnt. 
Like  those  hot  fire-seeds  of  creation 

held 
In  Jove's  clenched  palm  before  the 

worlds  were  sown; 
But  I  —  I  was  not  Juno  even  !   my 

hand 
Was  shut  in  weak  convulsion,  wo- 
man's ill; 
And  when  I  yearned  to  loose  a  finger 

—  lo. 
The  nerve  revolted.     'Tis  the  same 

even  now: 
This    hand    may    never    haply  open 

large, 
Before  the  sjiark  is  quenched,  or  the 

palm  charred. 
To  prove  the  power  not  else  than  by 

the  pain. 

It  burnt,  it  burns  —  my  whole  life 
burnt  with  it; 

And  light,  not  sunlight  and  not  torch- 
light, flashed 

My  steps  out  through  the  slow  and 
difficult  road. 

I  had  grown  distrustful  of  too  forward 
springs. 

The  season's  books  in  drear  signifi- 
cance 

Of  morals,  dropping  round  me.  Live- 
ly books  ? 

The  ash  has  livelier  verdure  than  the 
yew; 


And  yet  the  yew's  gi-een  longer,  and 
alone 

Found  worthy  of  the  holy  Christmas 
time: 

We'll  plant  more  yews  if   possible, 
albeit 

We  plant  the  graveyards  with  them. 

Day  and  night 

I  worked  my  rhythmic  thought,  and 
furrowed  up 

Both  watch   and  slumber  with  long 
lines  of  life 

Which  did  not  suit  their  season.     The 
rose  fell 

From  either  cheek,  my  eyes  globed 
luminous 

Through  orbits  of  blue  shadow,  and 
my  pulse 

Would    shudder    along   the    purple- 
veined  wrist 

Like  a  shot  bird.    Youth's  stern,  set 
face  to  face 

With  youth's   ideal;  and  when  peo- 
ple came 

And  said,  "  You  work  too  much,  you 
are  looking  ill," 

I  smiled  for  pity  of  them  who  pitied 
me, 

And  thought  I  should  be  better  soou, 
perhaps, 

For  those  ill  looks.     Observe,   "  I " 
means  in  youth 

Just  /,  the  conscious  and  eternal  soul 

With  all   its  ends,  and  not  the  out- 
side life, 

The  parcel-man,  the  doublet  of  the 
flesh, 

The  so  much  liver,  lung,  integument. 

Which  make  the  sum  of  "I"  here- 
after, when 

World-talkers  talk  of  doing  well  or 
ill. 

/  prosper  if  I  gain  a  step,  although 

A  nail  then  pierced  my  foot:  although 
my  brain. 

Embracing     any   truth,    froze    para- 
lyzed, 

I  prosper:  I  but  change  my   instru- 
ment; 

I  break  the  spade  off,  digging  deep 
for  gold. 

And  catch  the  mattock  up. 

I  worked  on,  on. 

Through    all    the  bristling  fence    of 
nights  and  days 

Which  hedges  time  in  from  the  eter- 
nities 

I  struggled,    never  stopped  to   note 
the  stakes 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


45 


Which  hurt  me  in  my  course.    The 
midnight  oil 

Would  stink  sometimes;  there  came 
some  vulgar  needs: 

I  had  to  live  that  therefore  I  might 
work, 

And,    being    but    poor,    I    was    con- 
strained, for  life, 

To  work  with  one  hand  for  the  book- 
sellers 

While  working  with  the  other  for  mv- 
self 

And  art:  you  swim  with  feet,  as  well 
as  hands, 

Or  make  small  way.     I  apprehended 
this. 

In  England  no  one  lives  by  verse  that 
lives ; 

And,   apprehending,    I    resolved    by 
prose 

To  make  a  space  to  sphere  my  living 
verse. 

I   wrote  for  cyclop.nedias,  magazines, 

And  weekly  papers,  holding  up  my 
name 

To  keep  it  from  the  mud.     I  learnt 
the  use 

Of  the  editorial  "  we  "  in  a  review. 

As    courtly  ladies    the  fine  trick  of 
trains, 

And    swept    it  grandly  through  the 
ojien  doors. 

As  if    one   could    not    pass    through 
doors  at  all, 

Save  so  encumbered.     I  wrote  tales 
beside. 

Carved   many  an   article  on  cherry- 
stones 

To  suit  light  readers,  —  something  in 
the  lines 

Revealing,   it  was  said,   the    mallet- 
hand; 

But  that  I'll  never  vouch  for.    What 
you  do 

For  bread  will  taste  of  common  grain, 
not  grapes. 

Although    you    have    a  vineyard    in 
Champagne, 

Much  less  in  Nephelococcygia, 

As  mine  was,  peradventure. 

Having  bread 

For  just  so  many  days,  just  breathing- 
room 

For    body    and    verse,    I    stood    up 
straight,  and  worked 

My    veritable    work.      And    as    the 
soul 

Wliich  grows  within  a  child  makes 
the  child  grow, 


Or  as  the  fiery  sap,  the  touch  from 
God, 

Careering  through  a  tree,  dilates  the 
bark, 

And  roughs  with  scale  and  knob,  be- 
fore it  strikes 

The  summer-foliage  out  in  a  green 
flame, 

So  life,  in  deepening  with  me,  deep- 
ened all 

The  course  I  took,  the  work  I  did. 
Indeed, 

The  academic  law  convinced  of  sin : 

The  critics  cried  out  on  the  falling  off. 

Regretting  the  first  manner.  But  I 
felt 

My  heart's  life  throbbing  in  my  verse 
to  show 

It  lived,  it  also  —  certes  incomplete. 

Disordered  with  all  Adam  in  the 
blood. 

But  even  its  very  tumors,  warts,  and 
wens 

Still  organized  by  and  implying  life. 

A  lady  called  upon  me  on  such  a  day. 

She  had  the  low  voice  of  your  Eng- 
lish dames,  — 

Unused,  it  seems,  to  need  rise  half  a 
note 

To  catch  attention,  —  and  their  quiet 
mood. 

As  if  they  lived  too  high  above  the 
earth 

For  that  to  put  them  out  in  anything: 

So  gentle,  because  verily  so  proud; 

So  wary  and  afraid  of  hurting  you. 

By  no  means  that  you  are  not  really 
vile. 

But  that  they  would  not  touch  you 
with  their  foot 

To  push  you  to  your  place;  so  self- 
possessed. 

Yet  gracious  and  conciliating,  it  takes 

An  effort  in  their  presence  to  speak 
truth : 

You  know  the  sort  of  woman,  —  bril- 
liant stuff. 

And  out  of  nature.  "  Lady  Walde- 
mar." 

She  said  her  name  quite  simply,  as  if 
it  meant 

Not  much,  indeed,  but  something; 
took  my  hands, 

And  smiled  as  if  her  smile  could  help 
my  case. 

And  dropped  her  eyes  on  me,  and  let 
them  melt. 

"  Is  this,"  she  said,  "  the  muse  ?  " 


46 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


"  No  sibyl,  even," 
I  answered,  "  since  she  fails  to  guess 

the  cause 
Which    taxed    yon  with    this    visit, 

madam." 

"  Good," 
She  said.     "  I  value  what's  sincere  at 

once. 
Perhaps,  if  I  had  found  a  literal  muse, 
The  visit  might  have  taxed  me.     As 

it  is, 
You  w^ear  your  blue  so  chiefly  in  your 

eyes. 
My  fair  Aurora,  in  a  frank,  good  way, 
It  comforts  me  entirely  for  your  fame. 
As  well  as  for  the  trouble  of  ascent 
To  this  Olyminis." 

There  a  silver  laugh 
Ran   ripjiling  through  her  quickened 

little  breaths 
The  steep  stair  somewhat  justified. 

"  But  still 
Your  ladyship  has  left  me  curious  why 
You  dared  the  risk  of  finding  the  said 

muse  ? ' ' 

"  Ah,  keep  me,  notwithstanding,  to 

the  point. 
Like  any  pedant  ?    Is  the  blue  in  eyes 
As  awful  as  in  stockings,  after  all, 
I  wonder,  that  j'ou'd  have  my  busi- 
ness out 
Before    I   breathe  —  exact    the    epic 

plunge 
In   spite  of  gasps?    Well,   naturally 

you  think 
I've  come  here,  as  the  lion-hunters  go 
To  deserts,  to  secure  you  with  a  trap 
For  exhibition  in  my  drawing-rooms 
On  zoologic  soirees?  not  in  the  least. 
Roar  softly  at  me:  I  am  frivolous, 
I  dare  say;  I   liave  jilayed  at  wild- 
beast  shows 
Like  other  M'omen  of  my  class,  —  but 

now 
I  meet  my  lion  simply  as  Androcles 
Met  his  ,  .  .  when  at  his  mercy." 

So,  she  bent 
Her  head  as  queens  may  mock,  then, 

lifting  up 
Her  eyelids  with  a  real  grave  queenly 

look, 
Which  ruled,  and  would  not  spare, 

not  even  herself,  — 
"  I  think  you  have  a  cousin, — Rom- 
ney  Leigli." 

"  You  bring  a  word  from  him  ?"  —  my 
eyes  leapt  up 


To  the  very  height  of  hers,  —  "a  word 
from  him'/  " 

"  I  bring  a  word  about  him  actually. 
But  first"  (she  jiressed  me  with  her 

urgent  eyes), 
"  You  do  not  love  him,  —  you  ?  " 

"  You're  frank  at  least 
In    2^ letting    questions,    madam,"    I 

reiilied. 
"I    love    my    cousin    cousinly  —  no 

more." 

"I  guessed   as  much.    I'm  ready  to 

be  frank 
In  answering  also,  if  you'll  question 

me. 
Or    even  for    something    less.      You 

stand  outside, 
You  artist  women,   of    the  common 

.sex; 
You  share  not  with  us,  and  exceed  lis 

so 
Perhaps  by  what  you're  mulcted  in, 

your  hearts 
Being  starved  to  make  your  heads: 

so  run  tlie  old 
Traditions  of    yon.    I   can  therefore 

speak 
Without    the    natural    shame   which 

creatures  feel, 
When    speaking    on    their    level,   to 

their  like. 
There's    many  a    papist    she,  would 

rather  die 
Than  own  to  her  maid  she  put  a  rib- 
bon on 
To  catch  the  indifferent  eye  of  such  a 

man. 
Who  yet  would  count  adulteries  on 

her  beads 
At  holy    Mary's    shrine,   and    never 

blush. 
Because  the  saints  are  so  far  off  we 

lose 
All  modesty  before  them.    Thus  to- 
day. 
'Tis  /love  Roinney  Leigh." 

"Forbear!  "  I  cried. 
■'  If  here's  no  muse,  still  less  is  any 

saint. 
Nor  even  a  friend,  that  Lady  Walde- 

mar 
Should  make  confessions '"  .  .  . 

"  That's  unkindly  said. 
If  no  friend,  what  forbids  to  make  a 

friend 
To  join  to  our  confession,  ere  we  have 

done  ? 


i 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


47 


I  love  your  cousin.     If  it  seems  un- 
wise 
To  say  so,  it's  still  foolislier  (we're 

frank) 
To  feel  so.    My  first  husband  left  me 

young, 
And  pretty  enough,   so  please   you, 

and  rich  enough 
To  keep  my  booth  in  May-fair  with 

the  rest 
To  happy  issues.      There    are    mar- 
quises 
AVould  serve  seven  years  to  call  me 

wife,  I  know, 
And  after  seven  I  might  consider  it, 
For  there's  some  comfort  in  a  mar- 

quisate, 
When  all's  said,  —  yes,  but  after  the 

seven  years ; 
I  now  love  Romney.     You   put  up 

your  lip 
So  like  a  Leigh  !   so  like  him  I     Par- 
don me, 
I'm  well  aware  I  do  not  derogate 
In  loving  Romney  Leigh.    The  name 

is  good, 
The    means    are    excellent;    but  the 

man,  the  man  — 
Heaven  help  us  both,  —  I  am  near  as 

mad  as  he 
In  loving  such  an  one." 

She  slowly  swung 
Her  heavy  ringlets  till  they  touched 

her  smile. 
As  reasonably  sorry  for  herself, 
And  thus  continued:  — 

"Of  a  truth,  Miss  Leigh, 
I  have  not  without  struggle  come  to 

this. 
I  took  a  master  in  the  tlerraan  tongue, 
I  gamed  a  little,  went  to  Paris  twice; 
But,  after  all,  this  love  !  .  .  .  you  eat 

of  love. 
And  do  as  vile  a  thing  as  if  you  ate 
Of  garlic,  which,  whatever  else  you 

eat. 
Tastes  uniformly  acrid,  till  your  peach 
Reminds  you  of  your  onion.    Am  I 

coarse  ? 
"Well,  love's  coarse,  nature's  coarse. 

Ah,  there's  the  rub  ! 
We  fair  fine  ladies,  who  park  out  our 

lives 
From    common    sheep-paths,    cannot 

help  the  crows 
From  flying   over:  we're  as  natural 

still 
As  Blowsaliuda.     Drape  us  perfectly 
In  Lyons  velvet,  we  are  not  for  that 


Lay-tigui-es,  look  you:  we  have  hearts 
within,  — 

Warm,    live,    improvident,   indecent 
hearts, 

As   ready   for   outrageous   ends   ami 
acts 

As  any  distressed  seamstress  of  them 
all 

That  Romney  groans  and   toils  for. 
We  catch  love. 

And  other  fevers,  in  the  vulgar  way. 

Love  will  not  be  outwitted  by  our 
wit. 

Nor  outrun  by  our  equijiages:  mine 

Persisted,  spite  of    efforts.    All  my 
cards 

Turned  up  but  Romney  Leigh;  my 
German  stopped 

At  germane  Wertherism;   my   Pariij 
rounds 

Returned  me  from  the  Champs  Ely> 
sees  just 

A  ghost,  and  sighing  like  Dido's.     J 
came  home 

Uucured,  convicted  rather  to  myself 

Of  being  in  love  ...  in  love  !  That's 
coarse,  you'll  say, 

I'm  talking  garlic." 

Coldly  I  replied: 

"  Apologize  for  atheism,  not  love  ! 

For  me,  I  do  believe  in  love,  and  God. 

I  know  my  cousin;  Lady  Waldemar 

I  know  not:   yet  I   say  as  much  as 
this, — 

Whoever  loves  him,  let  her  not  ex- 
cuse. 

But  cleanse  herself,  that,  loving  such 
a  man. 

She  may  not  do  it  with  such  unwor- 
thy love 

He  cannot  stoop  and  take  it." 

"That  is  said 

Austerely,  like  a  youthful  prophetess. 

Who  knits  her  brows  across  her  pret- 
ty eyes 

To  keep  them  back  from  following 
the  gray  flight 

Of    doves    between    the    temple-col- 
umns.   Dear, 

Be   kinder  with  me:   let  us  two  be 
friends. 

I'm  a  mere  woman,  —  the  more  weak, 
perhaps. 

Through  being  so  proud ;  you're  bet- 
ter; as  for  him. 

He's    best.      Indeed,   he    builds    his 
goodness  up 

So  high,  it  topples  down  to  the  other 
side. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  makes  a  sort  of  badness:  there's 

the  worst 
I  have  to  say  against  your  cousin's 

best. 
And  so  be  mild,   Aurora,   with  my 

worst, 
For  his  sake,  if  not  mine." 

"I  own  myself 
Incredulous  of  confidence  like  this 
Availing  him  or  you." 

"And  I,  myself, 
Of  being  worthy  of  him  with  any  love: 
In  your  sense  I  am  not  so  ;    let  it 

pass. 
And  yet  I  save  him  if  I  marry  him; 
Let  that  pass  too." 

"  Pass,  pass!  we  play  jjolice 
Upon  my  cousin's  life  to  indicate 
What  may  or  may  not  pass  ?  "  I  cried. 

"  He  knows 
What's  worthy  of  him :  the  choice  re- 
mains with  him ; 
And  what  he  chooses,  act  or  wife,  I 

think 
I  shall  not  call  unworthy,  I,  for  one." 

"  'Tis  somewhat  rashly  said,"  she  an- 
swered slow. 
"Now  let's  talk  reason,   though  we 

talk  of  love. 
Your  cousin  Romney  Leigh's  a  mon- 
ster: there, 
The  word's  out  fairly,  let  me  prove 

the  fact. 
We'll  take,  say,  that  most  perfect  of 

antiques 
They  call  the  Genius  of  the  Vatican, 
(Which  seems  too  beauteous  to  endure 

itself 
In  this  mixed  world,  and  fasten  it  for 

once 
Upon  the  torso  of  the  Dancing  Faun, 
(Who  might  limp,  surely,  if  he  did  not 

dance,) 
Instead  of  Buonarroti's  mask:  what 

then  ? 
We  show  the  sort  of  monster  Romney 

is. 
With  godlike  virtues  and  heroic  aims 
Subjoined  to  limijing  possibilities 
Of   mismade  human  nature.      Grant 

the  man 
Twice  godlike,  twice  heroic,   still  he 

limps ; 
And  here's  the  point  we  come  to." 

"Pardon  me; 
But,  Lady  Waldemar,  the  point's  the 

thing 
We  never  come  to." 


"  Caustic,  insolent 
At  need!    I  like  you," — (there  she 

took  my  hands) 
"  And  now,  my  lioness,  help  Andro- 

cles. 
For  all  your  roaring.    Help  me!   for 

myself 
I  would  not  say  so,  but  for  him.     He 

limps 
So  certainly,  he'll  fall  into  the  pit 
A  week  hence,  —  so  I  lose  him,  so  he 

is  lost! 
For  when  he's  fairly  married,   he  a 

Leigh, 
To  a  girl  of  doubtful  life,  undoubtful 

birth, 
Starved  out  in  London  till  her  coarse- 
grained hands 
Are    whiter  than    her  morals,   even 

you 
May  call  his  choice  unworthy." 

"  Married!  lost! 
He  .  .  .  Romney!  " 

"  Ah,  you're  moved  at  last,  she  said. 
"  These  monsters,  set  out  in  the  open 

sun. 
Of  course  throw  monstrous  shadows: 

those  who  think 
Awry  will  scarce  act  straightly.  Who 

but  he  ? 
And  who  but  you  can  wonder  ?    He 

has  been  mad, 
The  whole  world  knows,  since  first,  a 

nominal  man. 
He    soured    the    proctors,    tried    the 

gownsmen's  wits 
With  equal  scorn    of    triangles    and 

wine. 
And  took  no  honors,  vet  was  honora- 
ble. 
They'll  tell  you  he  lost  count  of  Ho- 
mer's ships 
In    Melbourne's  poor-bills,   Ashley's 

factory-bills; 
Ignored  the  Aspasia  we  all  dare  to 

praise. 
For  other  women,  dear,  we  could  not 

name 
Because  we're  decent.    Well,  he  had 

some  right 
On  his  side,  probably  :   men  always 

have. 
Who  go  absurdly  wrong.     The  living 

boor 
Who  brews  your  ale  exceeds  in  vital 

worth 
Dead  Caesar  who  '  stojis  bungholes  '  iu 

the  cask. 
And  also,  to  do  good  is  excellent, 


I 

i 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


49 


For  persons  of   his  income,  even  to 

boors. 
I  sympathize  with  all  such    things. 

But  he 
"Went    luad  upon  them  .  .  ,  madder 

and  more  mad 
From  college  times  to  these,  as,  going 

down  hill, 
The    faster  still,    the    farther.      You 

must  know 
Your  Leigh  by  heart:  he  has  sown  his 

black  young  curls 
With  bleaching  cares  of  half  a  million 

men 
Already.     If  j'^ou  do   not  starve,   or 

sin. 
You're  nothing  to  him:   pay  the  in- 
come-tax, 
And  break  your  heart  upon't,  he'll 

scarce  be  touched  ; 
But  come  upon  the  parish,  qualified 
For  the  parish  stocks,  and  Romney 

will  be  there 
To  call  you  brother,  sister,  or  perhaps 
A  tenderer  name  still.     Had   I  any 

chance 
With  Mister  Leigh,    who    am    Lady 

Waldemar, 
And  never  committed  felony  ?  " 

"  You  speak 
Too  bitterly,"  I  said,  "for  the  literal 

truth." 

"The  truth  is  bitter.    Here's  a  man 

who  looks 
Forever  on  the  ground.    You  must  be 

low. 
Or  else  a  pictured  ceiling  overhead, 
Good  painting  thrown  away.    For  me, 

I've  done 
What  women  may:  we're  somewhat 

limited. 
We  modest  women;  but  I've  done  my 

best. 
—  How  men  are  perjured  when  they 

swear  our  eyes 
Have  meaning  in  them!    They're  just 

blue  or  brown, 
They  just  can  drop  their  lids  a  little. 

And  yet 
Mine  did  more ;  for  I  read  half  Fou- 
rier through, 
Proudhon,    Considerant,    and    Louis 

Blanc, 
With  various  others  of  his  socialists, 
And,  if  I  had  been  a  fathom  less  in 

love. 
Had  cured  myself  with  gaping.     As 

it  was. 


I  quoted  from  them  jirettily  enough. 

Perhaps,   to  make  them  .sound  half 
rational 

To  a  saner  man  than  he  whene'er  we 
talked, 

(For  which  I  dodged  occasion;)  learnt 
by  heart 

His  speeches  in  the   Commons    and 
elsewhere 

Upon  the  social  question;  heaped  re- 
ports 

Of    wicked    women    and    penitentia- 
ries 

On  all  my  tables  (with  a  place   for 
Sue); 

And  gave  my  name  to  swell  svibscrip- 
tion-lists 

Toward  keeping  up  the  sun  at  nights 
in  heaven, 

And  other  possiblo  ends.    All  things 
I  did. 

Except  the  impossible  .  .  .  such    as 
wearing  gowns 

Provided  by  the  Ten  Hours'  move- 
ment: there 

I  stopped  —  we  must  stop  somewhere. 
He,  meanwhile, 

Unmoved  as  the  Indian  tortoise  'neath 
the  world. 

Let  all   that  noise  go  on    upon    his 
back. 

He  would  not  disconcert  or  throw  me 
out; 

'Twas  well  to  see  a  woman  of  my 
class 

With  such  a  dawn  of  conscience.     For 
the  heart 

Made  firewood  for  his  sake,  and  flam- 
ing up 

To  his  face,  —  he  merely  warmed  his 
feet  at  it: 

Just  deigned  to  let  my  carriage  stop 
him  short 

In  i^ark  or  street,  he  leaning  on  the 
door 

With  news  of  the  committee  which 
sate  last 

On  pickpockets  at  suck." 

"  You  jest,  you  jest." 

"  As  martyrs  jest,  dear  (if  you  read 

their  lives) 
Upon    the    axe    which    kills    them. 

When  all's  done 
By  me  .  .  .  for  him  —  you'll  ask  him 

presently 
The  color  of  my  hair:  he  cannot  tell, 
Or  answers, '  Dark,'  at  random ;  while, 

be  sure, 


AURORA   LEIGJf. 


He's  absolute  on  the  figure,  live  or 

ten, 
Of  ray  last  subscription.     Is  it  beara- 
ble, 
And  I  a  woman  ?  " 

"  Is  it  reparable, 
Though  I  were  a  man  ?  " 

"  I  know  not.     That's  to  prove. 
But  first,  this  shameful  marriage  ?  " 

"Ay?"  I  cried, 
"  Then  really  there's  a  marriage  ?  " 

"  Yesterday 
I    held    him    fast    upon    it.     '  Mister 

Leigh,' 
Said   I,  '  shut  up  a  thing,  it   makes 

more  noise. 
The  boiling  town   keeps  secrets  ill: 

I've  known 
Yours  since  last  week.     Forgive  my 

knowledge  so: 
You  feel  I'm  not  the  woman  of  tlie 

world 
Tlie   world  thinks;   you  have   borne 

with  me  before. 
And  used  me  in  your  noble  work,  our 

work. 
And  now  you  shall  not  cast  me'  off 

because 
You're  at  the  diificult  point,  the  join. 

'Tis  true 
Even  I  can  scarce  admit  the  cogency 
Of  such  a  marriage  .  .  .  where  you 

do  not  love, 
(Except    the    class)  yet    marry,   and 

throw  your  name 
Down  to  the  gutter,  for  a  fire-escape 
To  future  generations  !  'tis  sublime, 
A  great  example,  a  true  genesis 
Of  the  opening  social  era.     But  take 

heed : 
Tliis  virtuous  act  must  have  a  patent 

weight, 
Or  loses  half  its  virtue.    Make  it  tell. 
Interpret  it,  and  set  in  the  light. 
And  do  not  muttie  it  in  a  winter-cloak 
As  a  vulgar  bit  of  shame,  —  as  if,  at 

best, 
A  Leigh  had  made  a  misalliance,  and 

blushed 
A  Howard  should  know  it.'     Then  I 

pressed  him  more: 
■  He  would  not  choose,'  I  said,  '  that 

even  his  kin  .  .  . 
Aurora  Leigh,  even  .  .  .  should  con- 
ceive liis  act 
Less    sacrifice,    more     fantasy.'     At 

which 
He    grew   so    i^ale,    dear  ...  to   the 

lijjs,  I  knew 


I  had  touched  him.     '  Do  you  know 

her,'  he  inquired, 
'  My  cousin  Aurora  ?  '  — '  Yes,'  I  said, 

and  lied, 
(But  truly  we  all  know  you  by  your 

books) 
And  so  I  offered  to  come  straight  to 

you. 
Explain  the  subject,  justify  the  cause, 
And  take  you  with  me  to  St.  Marga- 
ret's Court 
To  see  this  miracle,  this  Marian  Erie, 
This    drover's    daughter    (she's    not 

pretty,  he  swears). 
Upon      whose      finger,      exquisitely 

pricked 
By  a  hundred  needles,  we're  to  Jiang 

the  tie 
'Twixt  class  and  class  in  England, — 

thus  indeed 
By  such  a  presence,  yours  and  mine, 

to  lift 
The    match    up    from    the    doubtful 

place.    At  once 
He  thanked  me,  sighing,  murmured  to 

himself, 
'  She'll  do  it,  perhaps:  she's  noble,' — 

tliauked  me  twice, 
And  promised,  as  my  guerdon,  to  iiut 

off 
His  marriage  for  a  month." 

I  answered  then, 
"  I  understand  your  drift  imperfectly. 
You  wisli  to  lead  me  to  my  cousin's 

betrothed. 
To  touch  her  hand  if  worthy,  and  hold 

her  liand 
If  feeble,  tlms  to  justify  his  match. 
So  be  it,  then.     But  how  this  serves 

j'our  ends. 
And  how  the  strange  confession  of 

your  love 
Serves  this,  I  have  to  learn  —  I  can- 
not see." 

She     knit     her     restless     forehead. 

"  Tlien,  despite 
Aurora,   that  most  radiant  morning 

name, 
You're  dull  as  any  Loudon  afternoon. 
I  wanted  time,  and  gained  it;  want' 

ed  you, 
And  gain  j'ou  !    You  will  come  and 

see  the  girl 
In  whose  most  prodigal  eyes  the  lineal 

pearl 
And  pride  of  all  j-our  lofty  race  of 

Leighs 
Is  destined  to  solution.     Authorized 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


51 


By  sight  and  knowledge,  then,  you'll 

speak  your  mind. 
And  jirove  to  Romney,  in  your  bril- 
liant way, 
He'll  wrong  the  people  and  posterity, 
(Say  such  a  thing  is  bad  for  me  and 

you. 
And  you  fail  utterly)  by  concluding 

thus 
An  execrable  marriage.    Break  it  up, 
Disroot  it;  perad venture  presently 
"We'll  plant  a  better  fortune  in   its 

place. 
Be  good  to  me,  Aurora,  scorn  me  less 
For  saying  the  thing  I  should  not. 

Well  I  know 
I  should  not.     I  have  kept,  as  others 

have. 
The  iron  rule  of  womanly  reserve 
In  lip  and  life,   till  now:   I  wept  a 

week 
Before  I  came  here."     Ending,   she 

was  pale. 
The  last  words,  haughtily  said,  were 

tremulous. 
This    palfrey    pranced     in    harness, 

arched  her  neck, 
And  only  by  the  foam  upon  the  bit 
You  saw-  she  champed  against  it. 

Then  I  rose. 
"  I  love  love:  truth's  no  cleaner  thing 

than  love. 
I  comprehend  a  love  so  fiery  hot 
It  burns  its  natui-al  veil  of    august 

shame. 
And  stands  sublimely  in  the  nude,  as 

chaste 
As  Medicean  Venus.    But  I  know, 
A  love  that  burns  through  veils  will 

burn  through  masks, 
And  shrivel  up  treachery.   What,  love 

and  lie  ! 
Nay.    Go  to  the  opera  !    Your  love's 

curable." 

"  I  love  and  lie  ?  "  she  said,  —  "I  lie, 

forsooth  ?  " 
And   beat   her  taper  foot  upon  the 

floor. 
And     smiled     against     the    shoe, — 

"  You're  hard.  Miss  Leigh, 
Unversed  in  current  phrases.    Bowl- 
ing-greens 
Of  poets  are  fresher  than  the  world's 

highways. 
Forgive  me  that  I  rashly  blew  the 

dust 
Which  dims  our  hedges  even,  in  your 

eyes. 


And  vexed  you  so  much.    You  find, 

probably, 
No  evil  in  this  marriage,  rather  good 
Of  innocence,  to  pastoralize  in  song. 
You'll  give  the  bond  your  signature, 

perhaps. 
Beneath  the  lady's  mark,  indifferent 
That    Romney    chose  -a    wife    could 

write  her  name. 
In  witnessing  he  loved  her." 

"  Loved  !  "  I  cried. 
"  Who  tells  you  that  he  wants  a  wife 

to  love  ? 
He  gets  a  horse  to  use,  not  love,  I 

think: 
There's  work  for  wives,  as  well, — 

and  after,  straw. 
When  men  are  liberal.     For  myself, 

you  err 
Sui^posing  power  in  me  to  break  this 

match. 
I  could  not  do  it  to  save  Romney's 

life, 
And  would  not  to  save  mine." 

'•' You  take  it  so," 
She    said:    "farewell,    then.      Write 

your  books  in  j^eace, 
As  far  as  may  be  for  some  secret  stir 
Now  obvious  to  me;  for,  most  obvi- 
ously. 
In  coming  hither  I  mistook  the  way." 
Whereat  she  touched  my  hand,  and 

bent  her  head. 
And  floated  from  me  like  a    silent 

cloud 
That  leaves  the  sense  of  thunder. 

I  drew  breath. 
Oppressed  in  my  deliverance.    After 

all. 
This  woman  breaks  her  social  system 

up 
For  love,  so  counted,  —  the  love  possi- 
ble 
To    siicli;   and  lilies  are  still   lilies, 

pulled 
By    smutty    hands,    thovigh    spotted 

from  their  w-liite; 
And  thus  she  is  better  haply,  of  her 

kind, 
Than  Romney  Leigh,  who   lives  by 

diagrams. 
And  crosses  out  the  sijoutaneities 
Of  all  his  individual,  personal  life 
With  formal  universals.    As  if  man 
AYere  set  upon  a  high  stool  at  a  desk 
To  keep  God's  books  for  him  in  red 

and  black. 
And  feel  by  millions  !    What  if  even 

God 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Were  chiefly  God  bv  living  out  him- 
self 

To  an  individualism  of  the  infinite, 

Eterne,        intense,        profuse,  —  still 
throwing  up 

The  golden  spray  of-  multitudinous 
worlds 

In   measure  to  the    proclive  weight 
and  rush 

Of  his  inner  nature,  —  the  spontane- 
ous love 

Still  jiroof  and  outflow  of  spontane- 
ous life  ? 

Then  live,  Aurora. 

Two  hours  afterward, 

Within  St.  Margarefs  Court  I  stood 
alone, 

Close- veiled.     A  siek  child,  from  an 
ague-fit. 

Whose  wasted  right  hand  gambolled 
'gainst  his  left 

With  an  old  brass  l)utton  in  a  blot  of 
sun. 

Jeered  weakly   at  me    as    I    passed 
across 

The  uneven  pavement;   while  a  wo- 
man rouged 

Upon  the  angular  cheek-boues,  ker- 
chief torn. 

Thin  dangling  locks,  and  flat  lascivi- 
ous mouth, 

Cursed   at   a   window   lioth  ways,  in 
and  out. 

By  turns  some  Ijed-rid  creature  and 
myself,  — 

"  Lie  still  there,   mother !    liker   the 
dead  dog 

You'll  be  to-morrow.     What,  we  pick 
our  way, 

Fine,  madam,   with   those   damnable 
small  feet ! 

We  cover  up  our  face  from  doing  good, 

As    if    it    were    our    purse  !     What 
brings  you  here, 

My  lady?  is't  to  find  my  gentleman 

Who  visits  his  tame  pigeon  in  the 
eaves  ? 

Our  cholera  catch  you  with  its  cramps 
and  spasms, 

And  tumble  up  your  good  clothes, 
veil  and  all, 

And  turn  your  whiteness  dead-blue!  " 
I  looked  up: 

I  tliink  I  could  have  walked  through 
hell  that  day. 

And     never    flinched.      "  The    dear 
Christ  comfort  you," 

I  said,  "  you  must  have  been   most 
miserable, 


To  be  so  cruel;  "  and  I  emjitied  out 

My  purse  upon  the  stones:  when,  as 
I  had  cast 

The  last  charm  ia  the  caldron,  the 
whole  court 

Went  boiling,  bubbling  up,  from  all 
its  doors    . 

And  windows,  with  a  hideous  wail  of 
laughs, 

And  roar  of  oaths,  and  Idows  per- 
haps ...  I  passed 

Too  quickly  for  distinguishing  .  .  . 
and  pushed 

A  little  side-door  hanging  on  a  hinge. 

And  plunged  into  the  dark,  and 
groped  and  climbed 

The  long,  steep,  narrow  stair  'twixt 
broken  rail 

And  mildewed  wall  that  let  the  plas- 
ter drop 

To  startle  me  in  the  blackness.    Still, 


up,  up 


So  high    lived    liomney's    bride.      I 

paused  at  last 
Before  a  low  door  in  the  roof,  and 

knocked: 
Tliere  came  an  answer  like  a  hurried 

dove,  — 
'■  So  soon  ?  can  that  be  Mister  Leigh  ? 

so  soon  ? 
And  as  I  entered  an  ineffable  face 
Met  mine  upon  the  threshold.     "Oh, 

not  you, 
Not    you ! "    The    drojiiiing    of    the 

voice  implied, 
"Then,  if  not  you,  for  me  not  any- 
one." 
I   looked  her  in  the  eyes,  and  held 

her  hands. 
And  said,  "I  am  his  cousin, — Rom- 

ney  Leigh's  ; 
And  here  I  come  to  see  my  cousin 

too." 
She   touched  me  with  her  face   and 

with  her  voice. 
This  daughter  of  the   people.     Such 

soft  flowers. 
From  such  rough  roots  ■'  the  people 

under  there, 
Can  sin  so,  curse  so,  look  so,  smell  so 

,  .  .  faugh  ! 
Yet  have  such  daughters  ? 

Nowise  beautiful 
Was  Marian  Erie.    She  was  not  white 

nor  brown. 
But  could   look  either,   like  a   mist 

that  changed 
According  to  being  shoue  on  more  or 

less. 


MARIAN     ERL£. 


^r  the'  >'^ 


\ 


^NlV^f^ 


or 


SITY 


'<Ll^o 


RNIX 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


The    hair,   too,   ran    its    opulence   of 

curls 
In  doubt  'twixt  dark  and  bright,  nor 

left  you  clear 
To  name  the  color.     Too  much  hair, 

perhaps, 
(Til  name  a  fault  here)  for  so  small  a 

head, 
Which  seemed  to  drooji  on  that  side 

and  on  this, 
As  a  full-blown  rose  uneasy  with  its 

weight, 
Though  not  a  wind  should  trouble  it. 

Again, 
The  dimple  in  the  cheek  had  Ijetter 

gone 
"With    redder,    fuller    rounds;     and 

somewhat  large 
The   mouth   was,    though   the   milky 

little  teeth 
Dissolved  it  to  so  infantine  a  smile. 
For  soon  it  smiled  at  me;   tlie  eyes 

smiled  too. 
But  'twas  as  if  remembering  they  had 

wept. 
And  knowing  they  should  some  day 

weep  again. 

We  talked.  She  told  me  all  her 
story  out. 

Which  I'll  retell  with  fuller  utter- 
ance. 

As  colored  and  confirmed  in  after- 
times 

Bj'  others  and  herself  too.  Marian 
Erie 

AVas  born  ui)on  the  ledge  of  Malvern 
Hill, 

To  eastward,  in  a  hut  built  up  at 
night, 

To  evade  the  landlord's  eye,  of  nnul 
and  turf; 

Still  liable,  if  once  he  looked  that 
way. 

To  being  straight  levelled,  scattered 
by  his  foot, 

Like  any  other  anthill.     Born,  I  say. 

God  sent  her  to  his  world  commis- 
sioned right. 

Her  himian  testimonials  fully  signed ; 

Not  scant  in  soul,  complete'in  linea- 
ments : 

But  others  had  to  swindle  her  a  jjlace 

To  wail  in  when  she  had  come.  No 
place  for  her. 

By  man's  law  !  Born  an  outlaw  was 
this  babe : 

Her  first  cry  in  our  strange  and  stran- 
gling air, 


When  cast  in  sjiasms  out  by  the  shud- 
dering womb, 

Was  wrong  against  the  social  code,  — 
forced  wrong: 

What  business  had  the  babj"  to  crv 
there  ? 

I  tell  her  story  and  grow  jiassionate. 
She,  Marian,  did   not  tell   it  so,  but 

used 
Meek  words  that  made  no  wonder  of 

herself 
For  being  so  a  sad  creature.     "  Mister 

Leigh 
Considered    truly    that    such    things 

.should  change. 
Thej'  loill,  in  heaven  —  but  meantime, 

on  the  earth. 
There's  none   can   like  a  nettle   as  a 

2Hnk, 
Except  himself.     We're  nettles,  some 

of  us. 
And  give  offence  by  the  act  of  spring- 
ing up; 
And,  if  we  leave  the  damp  side  of  the 

wall. 
The  hoes,  of  course,  are  on  us."     So 

she  said. 
Her  father  earned  his  life  by  random 

jobs 
Desi>ised     by    steadier    workmen, — 

keeping  swine 
On  commons,  picking  hops,  or  hurry- 
ing on 
The  harvest  at  wet   seasons,   or,   at 

need, 
Assisting  the  Welsh  drovers,  when  a 

drove 
Of  startled  horses  plunged  into  the 

mist 
Below  the  mountain-road,  and  sowed 

the  wind 
^^■itll  wandering    neighings.     In  be- 
tween the  gajis 
Of  such  irregular  work  he  drank  and 

slept, 
And  cursed  his  wife  because,  the  pence 

being  out, 
She   could   not  buy  more  drink.     At 

which  she  turned, 
(The  worm)  and  Ijeat  her  baby  in  re- 
venge 
For  her  own  broken   heart.    There's 

not  a  crime 
But  takes  its  proper  change  out  still  in 

crime 
If  once  rung  on  the  counter  of  this 

world : 
Let  sinners  look  to  it. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Yet  the  outcast  child, 
For  whom  the  very  mother's  face  fore- 
went 
The  mother's  special  patience,  lived 

and  grew; 
Learnt  early  to   cry  low,  and   walk 

alone, 
Witli  that  pathetic,  vacillating  roll 
Of  the  infant  body  on  the  uncertain 

feet, 
(The  earth  being  felt  unstable  ground 

so  soon,) 
At  which  most  women's  arms  unclose 

at  once 
With  irrepressive  instinct.    Thus  at 

three 
This  i^oor  weaned  kid  would  run  off 

from  the  fold, 
This   babe  would  steal  off  from  the 

mother's  chair. 
And,   creeping    through    the    golden 

walls  of  gorse, 
"Would  find  some  keyhole  toward  the 

secrecy 
Of  heaven's  high  blue,  and,  nestling 

down,  peer  out  — 
Oh,  not  to  catch  the  angels  at  their 

games. 
She  had  never  heard  of  angels,  —  but 

to  gaze 
She  knew  not  why,  to  see  she  knew 

not  what, 
A-hungering  outward  from  the  barren 

earth 
For  something  like  a  joy.     She  liked, 

she  said. 
To  dazzle  black  her  sight  against  the 

sky; 
For  then,  it  seemed,  some  grand  blind 

Love  came  down. 
And  groped  her  out,  and  clasped  her 

with  a  kiss. 
She  learnt  God  that  way,  and  was 

beat  for  it 
Whenever  she  went  home,  yet  came 

again. 
As  surely  as  the  trapped  hare,  get- 
ting free, 
Returns    to    his    form.     This    grand 

blintl  Love,  she  said. 
This  skyey  father  and  mother  both  in 

one, 
Instructed     her    and    civilized     her 

more 
Than  even  Sunday  school  did  after- 
ward, 
To  which  a  lady  sent  her  to  learn 

books. 
And  sit  upon  a  long  bench  in  a  row 


With     other     children.      Well,     she 

laughed  sometimes 
To  see  them   laugh  and  laugh,  and 

maul  their  texts; 
But    ofter    she   was    sorrowful    with 

noise. 
And  wondered  if  their  mothers  beat 

them  hard 
That    ever    tliey    should    laugh    so. 

There  was  one 
She  loved  indeed,  —  Rose  Bell,  a  seven 

years'  child 
So  pretty  and  clever,  who  read  sylla- 
bles 
When    Marian    was    at    letters  :    she 

would  laugh 
At  nothing,  hold  your  finger  up,  she 

laughed, 
Then  shook  her  curls  down  over  eyes 

and  mouth 
To    hide    her  make-mirth    from  the 

schoolmaster. 
And  Rose's  pelting  glee,  as  frank  as 

rain 
On  cherry-blossoms,  brightened  Mar- 

rian  too. 
To  see  another  merry  whom  she  loved. 
She  whispered  once  (the  children  side 

by  side, 
With    mutual  arms  intwined    about 

their  necks) 
"  Your  mother  lets  you  laugh  so?" 

"  Ay,"  said  Rose, 
"'  She  lets  me.    She  was  dug  into  the 

ground 
Six  years  since,  I  being  but  a  yearling 

wean. 
Such  mothers  let  vis  play,  and  lose  our 

time. 
And  never  scold  nor  beat  us.    Don't 

you  wish 
You    iiad    one    like    that?"     There 

Marian  breaking  off 
Looked  suddenly  in  my  face.     "  Poor 

Rose  ! ' '  said  she : 
"  I  heard  her  laugh  last  night  in  Ox- 
ford Street. 
I'd  jDour  out  half  my  blood  to  stop 

that  laugh. 
Poor  Rose,  jioor  Rose  !  "  said  Marian. 

She  resumed. 
It  tried  her,  when  she  had  learnt  at 

Sunday  school 
What  God  was,  what  lie  wanted  from 

us  all. 
And  how  in  choosing  sin  we  vexed 

the  Christ, 
To  go  straight  liome,  and  hear  her 

father  i^uU 


I      ^  I  ■  I  ^ 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


The  Name  clown  on  us  from  the  thim- 

der-shelf, 
Then  drink  away  his  soul   into  the 

dark 
From     seeing      judgment.      Father, 

mother,  liome. 
Were  God  and  heaven    reversed   to 

her:  the  more 
She    knew    of    right,   tlie    more    she 

guessed  their  wrong : 
Her  price  paid  down  for  knowledge 

was  to  know 
The  vileness  of  her  kindred:  through 

her  heart, 
Her  filial  and  tormented  heart,  hence- 
forth, 
They  struck   their    lilows  at  virtue. 

Oh  !  'tis  hard 
To   learn    you    have   a  father  up  in 

heaven 
Ey  a  gathering  certain  sense  of  being, 

on  earth. 
Still  worse  than  orphaned:    'tis  too 

heavy  a  grief 
The  having  to  thank  God  for  such  a 

joy. 

And  so  passed  Marian's  life  from  year 
to  year. 

Her  parents  took  her  with  them  when 
they  tramped, 

Dodged  lanes  and  heaths,  frequented 
towns  and  fairs, 

And  once  went  farther,  and  saw  Man- 
chester, 

And  once  the  sea,  —  that  blue  end  of 
the  world, 

That  fair  scroll-finis  of  a  wicked 
book, — 

And  twice  a  prison,  back  at  inter- 
vals, 

Returning  to  the  hills.  Hills  draw 
like  heaven. 

And  stronger  sometimes,  holding  out 
their  hands 

To  pull  you  from  the  vile  flats  up  to 
them. 

And  though,  perhaps,  these  strollers 
still  strolled  back, 

As  sheep  do,  simply  that  they  knew 
the  way, 

They  certainly  felt  bettered  un- 
aware. 

Emerging  from  the  social  smut  of 
towns. 

To  wipe  their  feet  clean  on  the  moun- 
tain turf. 

In  which  long  wanderings  Marian 
lived  and  learned, 


Endured  and  learned.     Tlie  people  on 

the  roads 
.Would  stop,  and  ask    her  why  her 

eyes  outgrew 
Her  cheeks,  and  if  she  meant  to  lodge 

the  birds 
In  all  that  hair  ;  and  then  they  lifted 

her,  — 
The  miller  in  his  cart  a  mile  or  twain. 
The  butcher's  boy  on  horseback.    Of- 
ten, too. 
The  jjeddler  stopped,  and  tapped  her 

on  the  head 
With  absolute  forefinger,  brown  and 

ringed. 
And  asked,  if  peradventure  she  could 

read ; 
And     when     she   answered,     "Ay," 

would  toss  her  down 
Some    stray    odd    volume    from    his 

heavy  pack,  — 
A  "  Thomson's  Seasons,"  mulcted  of 

the  spring. 
Or  half  a  play  of  Shakspeare's,  torn 

across, 
(She  had  to  guess  the  bottom  of  a  page 
By  just  the  top,  sometimes  ;   as  diffi- 
cult 
As,  sitting  on  the  moon,  to  guess  the 

earth  !) 
Or  else  a  sheaf    of  leaves  (for  that 

small  Ruth's 
Small  gleanings)  torn  out  from  the 

heart  of  books. 
From  Churchyard  Elegies  and  Edens 

Lost, 
From  Burns,   and  Bunyan,   Selkirk, 

and  Tom  Jones. 
'Twas   somewhat    hard    to  keep  the 

things  distinct; 
And  oft  the  jangling  influence  jarred 

the  cliild. 
Like  looking  at  a  sunset  full  of  grace 
Through   a  pothouse   window,  while 

the  drunken  oaths 
Went  on  behind  her.    But  she  weeded 

out 
Her    book-leaves,    threw    away    the 

leaves  that  hurt, 
(First    tore    them    small,    tliat    none 

should  find  a  word) 
And  made  a  nosegay  of  the  sweet  and 

good 
To  fold  within  her  breast,  and  pore 

upon 
At  broken  moments  of  the  noontide 

glare. 
When  leave  was  given  her  to  untie 

her  cloak. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  rest  iijion  the  dusty  highway's 
bank 

From  the  road's  dust :  or  oft,  the 
journey  done, 

Some  city  friend  would  lead  her  by 
the  hand 

To  hear  a  lecture  at  an  institute. 

And  thus  she  had  grown,  this  Marian 
Erie  of  ours. 

To  no  book-learning.  She  was  igno- 
rant 

Of  authors  ;  not  in  earshot  of  the 
things 

Outspoken  o'er  the  heads  of  common 
men 

Bymenwho  are  uncommon,  but  within 

The  cadenced  hum  of  such,  and  ca- 
pable 

Of  catching  from  the  fringes  of  the 
wing 

Some  fragmentary  phrases  here  and 
there 

Of  that  fine  music,  which,  being  car- 
ried in 

To  lier  soul,  had  reproduced  itself 
afresh 

In  finer  motions  of  the  lips  and  fids. 

She   said,   in    speaking  of   it,    "  If   a 

flower 
"Were  thrown  you  out  of  heaven  at 

intervals. 
You'd  soon  attain  to  a  trick  of  look- 
ing up  " 
And  so  with  her.     She  counted  me 

her  years, 
Till  /  felt  old  ;   and  then  she  counted 

me 
Her  sorrowful    pleasures,  till   I  felt 

ashamed. 
She  told  me  she  was  fortunate  and 

calm 
On  such  and  such  a  season,  sate  and 

sewed. 
With  no  one  to  break  up  her  crystal 

thoughts, 
While  rhymes  from  lovely  poems  span 

around 
Their  ringing  circles  of  ecstatic  tune. 
Beneath  the  moistened  linger  of  the 

hour. 
Her    parents    called    her    a    strange, 

sickly  child. 
Not  good  for  much,  and  given  to  sulk 

and  stare, 
And   smile  into  the  hedges  and   the 

clouds, 
And   tremble  if   one  shook  her  from 

her  fit 


By  any  blow,  or  word  even.  Outdoor 
jobs 

Went  ill  with  her,  and  household 
quiet  work 

She  was  not  born  to.  Had  they  kept 
the  north, 

They  might  have  had  their  penny- 
worth out  of  her, 

Like  other  jjarents,  in  the  factories, 

(Your  children  work  for  yon,  not  you 
for  them, 

Or  else  they  better  had  been  choked 
with  air 

The  first  breath  drawn ;)  but,  in  this 
tramping  life. 

Was  nothing  to  be  done  with  such  a 
child 

But  tramp  and  tramp.  And  yet  she 
knitted  hose 

Not  ill,  and  was  not  dull  at  needle- 
work ; 

Antl  all  the  country  people  gave  her 
pence 

For  darning  stockings  past  their  natu- 
ral age, 

And  patching  petticoats  from  old  to 
new. 

And  other  light  work  done  for  thrifty 
wives. 

One  day,  said  Marian,  —  the  sun  shone 

that  day,  — 
Her  mother  had  been  badly  beat,  and 

felt 
The  bruises  sore  about  her  wretched 

soul, 
(That  must  have  been) :  she  came  in 

suddenly. 
And  snatching  in  a  sort  of  breathless 

rage 
Her    daiighter's    headgear  comb,  let 

down  the  hair 
Upon  her  like  a  sudden  waterfall. 
Then  drew  her  drenched  and  passive 

l)y  the  arm 
Outside  the  hut  they  lived  in.     When 

the  child 
Could  clear  her  blinded  face  from  all 

that  stream 
Of   tresses  .    .    .  there  a  man  stood, 

with  beast's  eyes. 
That  seemed  as  they  would  swallow 

her  alive. 
Complete  in  body  and  spirit,  hair  and 

all. 
And  T)urning  stertorous  breath  that 

hurt  her  cheek. 
He  breathed  so  near.      The  mother 

held  her  tight. 


"A  wagoner  had  found  her  in  a  ditch."  — Page'  £7- 


'<Lii6 


RH\K 


I 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Saying  hard  between  her  teeth,  "Why, 

wench,  why,  wench. 
The  squire  speaks  to  you  now  !   the 

squire's  too  good  : 
He  means  to  set  you  up,  and  comfort 

us. 
Be  mannerly  at    least."     The   child 

turned  round 
And  looked  up  piteous  in  the  mother's 

face, 
(Be  sure  that  mother's  death-bed  will 

not  want 
Another  devil  to  damn,  than  such  a 

look) 
"  O  mother  !  "    Then,  with  desperate 

glance  to  heaven, 
"  God,  free  me  from  my   mother  !  " 

she  shrieked  out, 
"These  mothers  are  too   dreadful." 

And,  with  force 
As  ijassionate  as  fear,  she  tore  her 

hands, 
Like  lilies  from  the  rocks,  from  hers 

and  his, 
And  sprang  down,  bounded  headlong 

down  the  steep. 
Away  from  both  —  away,  if  possible. 
As  far  as  God,  —  away  !    They  yelled 

at  her. 
As  famished  hounds  at  a  hare.     She 

heard  them  yell ; 
She  felt  her  name  hiss  after  her  from 

the  hills. 
Like  shot  from  guns.     On,  on.    And 

now  she  had  cast 
The  voices  off  with  tlie  uplands.    On. 

Mad  fear 
Was  running  in  her  feet,  and  killing 

the  ground ; 
The  white    roads    curled    as    if    she 

burnt  them  up; 
The    green    fields    melted;    wayside 

trees  fell  back 
To   make  room  for  her.    Then    her 

head  grew  vexed ; 
Trees,  fields,  turned  on  her  and  ran 

after  her; 
She  heard  the  quick  pants  of  the  hills 

behind, 
Their  keen  air  pricked  her  neck:  she 

had  lost  her  feet, 
Could  run    no    more,   yet    somehow 

went  as  fast. 
The  horizon  red  'twixt  steeples  in  the 

east 
So    sucked    lier    forward,     forward, 

while  her  heart 
Kept  swelling,  swelling,  till  it  swelled 

ao  big 


It  seemed   to  fill  her  body,  wlien  it 

burst, 
And      overflowed     the     world,     and 

swamped  the  light: 
"And    now  I    am    dead  and  safe," 

thought  Marian  Erie. 
She  had  dropped,  she  had  fainted. 

As  the  sense  returned. 
The    night    had    passed,  — not    life's 

night.     She  was  'ware 
Of  heavy  tumbling  motions,  creaking 

wheels. 
The  driver  shouting  to  the  lazy  team 
That    swung    their    rankling     bells 

against  her  brain. 
While    through    the   wagon's    cover- 
ture and  chinks 
The  cruel  yellow  morning  pecked  at 

her. 
Alive  or  dead  upon  the  straw  inside; 
At  which  her  soul  ached  back  into 

the  dark 
And  prayed,  "No  more  of  that."    A 

wagoner 
Had  found  her  in  a  ditch  beneath  tlie 

moon. 
As  white  as  moonshine,  save  for  the 

oozing  blood. 
At   first  he  thought    her  dead;    but 

when  he  had  wix)ed 
The    mouth,   and    heard  it  sigh,   he 

raised  her  up. 
And  laid  her  in  his  wagon  in    the 

straw. 
And  so  conveyed  her  to  the  distant 

town 
To  which  his  business  called  himself, 

and  left 
That  heap  of  misery  at  the  hospital. 

She   stirred:  the   place   seemed   new 

and  strange  as  de^th. 
The    white    strait    bed,   with    others 

strait  and  white. 
Like  graves  dug  side  by  side  at  meas- 
ured lengths. 
And  quiet  people  walking  in  and  out 
With  wonderful  low  voices  and  soft 

steps. 
And  apparitional  equal  care  for  each. 
Astonished   her  with  order,   silence, 

law; 
And  when  a  gentle  hand  held  out  a 

cup. 
She  took  it,  as  you  do  at  sacrament. 
Half    awed,   half  melted,   not  being 

used,  indeed. 
To  so  much  love  as  makes  the  form 

of  love 


58 


A  U  ROE  A   LEIGH. 


And  courtesy  of  manners.    Delicate 

drinks, 
And  rare  white  bread,  to  wliicb  some 

dying  eyes 
Were   turned  in  observation.    O  my 

God, 
How  sick  we  must  be  ere  we  make 

men  just ! 
I  think  it  frets  tlie  saints  in  heaven 

to  see 
How  many  desolate  creatures  on  the 

eartii 
Have  learnt  the  simple  dues   of  fel- 
lowship 
And  social  comfort,  in  a  hospital, 
As    Marian     did.      She     lay    there, 

stunned,  half  tranced, 
And  wished,  at  intervals  of  growing 

sense, 
She  might  be  sicker  yet,  if  sickness 

made 
The  world  so  marvellous  kind,  the 

air  so  hushed, 
And  all  her  wake-time   quiet    as    a 

sleep; 
For    now  she    understood    (as    such 

things  were) 
How  sickness  ended  very  oft  in  heav- 
en 
Among  the  unsjioken  raptures — yet 

more  sick. 
And      surelier     happy.      Then      she 

dropped  her  lids, 
And,  folding  up  her  hands  as  flowers 

at  night, 
>yould  lose  no  moment  of  the  blessed 

time. 

She  lay  and  seethed  in  fever  many 

weeks. 
But  youth  was  strong,  and  overcame 

the  test: 
Revolted  soul  and  flesh  were  recon- 
ciled. 
And  fetched  back  to  the  necessary 

day 
And  daylight  duties.    She  could  creep 

about 
The  long  bare  rooms,  and  stare  out 

drearily 
From    any  narrow    window  on    the 

street, 
Till  some  one  wlio  had  nursed  her  as 

a  friend 
Said  coldly  to  her,  as  an  enemy, 
"  She  had  leave  to   go    next  week, 

being  well  enough," 
(While  only  her  heart  ached.)    "  Go 

next  week,"  thought  she. 


' '  Next  week !  how  would  it  be  with 

her  next  week. 
Let  out  into  that  terrible  street  alone 
Among  the  i^ushing  people  ...  to  go 

.  .  .  where  ?  " 

One  day,  the  last  before  the  dreaded 

last, 
Among  the  convalescents,  like  herself 
Prepared    to    go  next  morning,   she 

sate  dumb. 
And  heard  half  absently  the  women 

talk, — 
How  one  was  famished  for  her  baby's 

cheeks, 
"  The  little  wretch  would  know  lier  ! 

a  year  old 
And  livel}%  like  his  father;  "  one  was 

keen 
To  get  to  work,  and  fill  some  clamor- 
ous mouths; 
And    one    was    tender    for  her  dear 

goodman 
Who  had  missed  her  sorely ;  and  one, 

querulous  .  .  . 
"  Would    iiay    backbiting    neighbors 

who  had  dared 
To  talk  about  her  as  already  dead;  " 
And  one  was  i^roud  ..."  and  if  her 

sweetheart  Luke 
Had  left  her  for  a  ruddier  face  than 

hers, 
(The  gossip  would  be  seen  through  at 

a  glance) 
Sweet  riddance  of  such  sweethearts 

—  let  him  hang  ! 
'Twere  good  to  have   been  sick  for 

such  an  end." 

And  while  they  talked,  and  Marian 

felt  the  worse 
For  having  missed  the  worst  of  all 

their  wrongs, 
A  visitor  was,  ushered   through  the 

wards 
And    paused     among     the     talkers. 

"  When  he  looked 
It  was  as  if  he  sjioke,  and  when  he 

spoke 
He    sang    perhaps,"     said     ISfarian; 

"could  she  tell? 
She   onlj^  knew"  (so  much  she  had 

chronicled, 
As  seraphs  might  the  making  of  the 

sun) 
"  That  he  who  came  and  spake  was 

Romney  Leigh, 
And  then  and  there  she  saw  and  heard 

him  first." 


i 


II 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


And  when  it  was  her  turn  to  have  the 

face 
Upon  her,   all  those   buzzhig    pallid 

lips 
Being  satisfleel  with  comfort  —  when 

he  changed 
To  Marian,  saying,  "And  yov  ?  yon'ro 

going,  wliere  ?  " 
She,  moveless  as  a  worm  l)eneath  a 

stone 
AVhich  some  one's  stumbling  foot  has 

spurned  aside, 
"Writhed    suddenly,   astonished   with 

the  light. 
And  breakinginto  sobs  cried,  "  Where 

Igo? 
None    asked    nic    till    this    moment. 

Can  I  say 
Where  J  go,  when  it  has  not  seemed 

worth  while 
To  God  himself,  who  thinks  of  every 

one. 
To  think  of  me,  and  fix  where  I  shall 

go?" 

■'So   young,"    he    gently   asked    lier, 

' '  you  have  lost 
Your  fatlier  and  vour  mother  ?  " 

"  Both,"  she  said, 
"Both  lost!    My  father  was  burnt  up 

witli  gin 
Or  ever  I  sucked  milk,  and  so  is  lost. 
^ly  mother  sold  me  to  a  man  last 

month, 
And  so  my  mother's  lost,  'tis  mani- 
fest. 
And  I,  who  fled  from  her  for  miles 

and  miles, 
As  if  I  had  caught  sight  of  the  fire  of 

hell 
Through  some  wild  gap,  (she  was  my 

mother,  sir) 
It  seems  I  shall  be  lost  too  presently: 
And  so  we  end,  all  three  of  us." 

"Poor  child!  " 
He    said,    with    such    a    pity   in   his 

voice. 
It  soothed  her  more  than  her  own 

tears,  —  "  i:)oor  child! 
'Tis  simple  that  betrayal  by  mother's 

love 
Should   bring  despair   of    frod's   too. 

Yet  be  taught, 
He's  better  to  us  than  many  mothers 

are. 
And  children  cannot  wander  beyond 

reach 
Of  the  sweep  of  his  white  raiment. 

Touch  and  hold ! 


And,  if  you  weep  still,  weep  where 

John  was  laid 
While  Jesus  loved  him." 

"  She  could  say  the  words," 
She  told  me,  "  exactly  as  he  \ittered 

them 
A  year  back,  since  in  any  doulit  or 

dark 
They  came  out  like   the   stars,   and 

shone  on  her 
With  just  their   comfort.      Common 

words,  perhaps 
The  ministers  in  church  might  say 

the  same ; 
But  he,  he  made  the  church  with  what 

he  spoke : 
The  difference  was  the  miracle,"  said 

she. 

Then  catching  up  her  smile  to  ravish- 
ment. 

She  added  quickly,  "I  repeat  his 
words. 

But  not  his  tones:  can  any  one  re- 
peat 

The  music  of  an  organ  out  of  church  '? 

And  when  he  said,  'Poor  child!'  I 
shut  my  eyes 

To  feel  how  tenderly  his  voice  broke 
through, 

As  the  ointment-box  broke  on  the 
Holy  feet 

To  let  out  the  rich  medicative  nard." 

She  told  me  how  he  had  raised  and 
rescued  her 

With  reverent  pity,  as  in  touching 
grief 

He  touched  the  wounds  of  Christ, 
and  made  her  feel 

More  self-respecting.  Hope  he  called 
belief 

In  God;  work,  worship:  therefore  let 
us  pray. 

And  thus,  to  snatch  her  soul  from 
atheism, 

And  keep  it  stainless  from  her  moth- 
er's face, 

He  sent  her  to  a  famous  seamstress- 
house 

Far  off  in  London,  there  to  work  and 
hope. 

With    that    they  parted.      She    kept 

sight  of  heaven. 
But  not  of  Eomney.     He  had  good 

to  do 
To  others.     Through  the  days    and 

through  the  lughts 


60 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


She  sewed    and   sewed    and    sewed. 

She  drooped  sometimes, 
And  wondered,  while  along  tlie  tawny 

light 
She  struck  the  new  thread  into  her 

needle's  eye, 
How  people  without  mothers  on  the 

hills 
Could  choose  the  town  to  live  in;  then 

she  drew 
The  stitch,  and  mused  how  Romney's 

face  would  look. 
And  if  'twere  likely  he'd  remember 

hers 
When  they  two  had  their    meeting 

after  death.  « 


BOOK   FOURTH. 

They  met  still  sooner.     'Twas  a  year 

from  thence 
That  Lucy  Gresham  —  the  sick  seam- 
stress girl, 
Who  sewed  by  Marian's  chair  so  still 

and  quick. 
And  leant  her  head  upon  its  back  to 

cough 
More  freely,  wdien,  the  mistress  turn- 
ing round. 
The  others  took  occasion  to  laugh  out — 
Gave  up  at  last.    Among  the  workers 

spoke 
A  bold  girl  with  lilaek  eyebrows  and 

red  lips: 
"  You  know  the  news  ?     Who's  dying, 

do  you  think  ? 
Our  Lucy  Gresham.    I  expected  it 
As  little  as  Nell  Hart's  wedding. — 

Blush  not,  Nell, 
Thy  curls  be  red  enough  without  thy 

cheeks. 
And    some  day  there'll  l^e  found  a 

man  to  dote 
On  red  curls.    Lucy  Gresham  swooned 

last  night, 
Dropped  sudden  in  the  street  while 

going  home ; 
And  now  the    baker  says,  who   took 

her  up 
And  laid  her  by  her  grandmother  in 

bed. 
He'll  give  her  a  week  to  die  in.     Pass 

the  silk. 
Let's  hope  he  gave  her  a  loaf  too, 

within  reach; 


For    otherwise  they'll   starve  before 

they  die. 
That  f unnv  pair  of  bedfellows  !  —  Miss 

Beir, 
I'll  thank  you  for  the  scissors.    The 

old  crone 
Is  paralytic;  that's  the  reason  why 
Our  Lucy's  thread  went  faster  than 

her  breath. 
Which  went  too  quick,  we  all  know. 

—  Marian  Erie  ! 
Why,  Marian  Erie,  you're  not  the  fool 

to  cry  ? 
Your  tears    spoil  Lady  Waldemar's 

new  dress, 
You  piece  of  pity  ! ' ' 

Marian  rose  up  straight, 
And,  breaking  through  the  talk  and 

through  the  work, 
AVent  outward,  in  the  face  of  their 

surprise, 
To  Lucv's  home,  to  nurse  her  back  to 

life 
Or  down  to    death.     She    knew,   bj- 

such  an  act, 
All  ])lace   and  grace  were  forfeit  in 

the  house. 
Whose    mistress    would    supplj'    the 

missing  hand 
With  necessary  not  inhuman  haste, 
And  take  no  blame.    But  pity,  too, 

had  dues. 
She  coiild  not  leave  a  solitary  soul 
To  founder  in  the  dark,  while  she  sate 

still 
And    lavished    stitches    on    a  lady's 

hem, 
As  if  no  other  work  were  paramount. 
"  Why,  God,"  thought  Marian,  "  has 

a  missing  hand 
This  moment:   Lucy  wants  a  drink, 

perhaps. 
Let  others  miss  me  !  never  miss  me, 

God!  " 

So  Marian  sate  by  Lucy's  bed,  con- 
tent 

With  duty,  and  was  strong,  for  recom- 
pense, 

To  hold  the  lanqi  of  Innnan  love  arm- 
high. 

To  catch  the  death-strained  eyes,  and 
comfort  them. 

Until  the  angels,  on  the  luminous 
side 

Of  death,  had  got  theirs  ready.  And 
she  said. 

If  Lucy  thanked  her  sometimes,  called 
her  kind, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


It  touched  her  strangely.  "Marian 
Erie,  called  kind  ! 

What  Marian,  beaten  and  sold,  who 
could  not  die  ! 

'Tis  verily  good  fortune  to  be  kind. 

Ah,  you!"  she  said,  "  who  are  born 
to  such  a  grace. 

Be  sorry  for  the  unlicensed  class,  the 
poor, 

Reduced  to  think  the  best  good  for- 
tune means 

That  others  simply  should  be  kind 
to  them." 

From  sleep  to  sleep  when  Lucy  had 

slid  away 
So  gently,  like  the  light  upon  a  hill. 
Of  which  none    names  the  moment 

that  it  goes 
Though    all    see  when    'tis    gone,    a 

man  came  in 
And  stood  beside  the  bed.    The  old 

idiot  wretch 
Screamed  feebly,   like  a  baby  over- 
lain, 
"  Sir,  sir,  you  won't  mistake  me  for 

the  corpse  ? 
Don't  look  at  me,   sir !    never   bury 

me  I 
Although  I  lie  here,  I'm  alive  as  yoTi, 
Except  my  legs  and  arms,  —  I  eat  and 

drink 
And   imderstand, — (that  you're   the 

gentleman 
Who   tits    the    funerals   ui).   Heaven 

speed  you,  sir,) 
And  certainlv   I  should    be    livelier 

still 
If    Lucy   here  .  .  .  sir,   Lucy    is    the 

corpse  .  .  . 
Had  worked  more  properly  to  Iniy  me 

wine; 
But   Lucj%   sir,  was  always   slow  at 

work,     . 
I  sha'n't  lose  much  by  Liicv.  —  Marian 

Erie, 
Speak  up,  and  show  the  gentleman  the 

corpse." 

And  then  a  voice  said,  "  Marian  Erie." 
She  rose ; 

It  was  the  hour  for  angels  —  there 
stood  hers ! 

She  scarcely  marvelled  to  see  liomney 
Leigh. 

As  light  November  snows  to  empty 
nests. 

As  grass  to  graves,  as  moss  to  mil- 
dewed stones, 


As   July  suns  to  ruins,  through  the 

rents. 
As  ministering  spirits  to  mourners, 

through  a  loss. 
As   Heaven    itself    to    men,   through 

Jiangs  of  death. 
He  came  uncalled  wherever  grief  had 

come. 
"And  so,"   said  Marian  Erie,  "we 

met  anew," 
And  added  softly,  "so,  we  shall  not 

part." 

He  was  not  angry  that  she  had  left 

the  house 
Wherein  he  placed  her.     Well,   she 

had  feared  it  might 
Have    vexed    him.    Also,    when    he 

found  her  set 
On  keeping,  though  the  dead  was  out 

of  sight. 
That  half-dead,  half-live  body  left  be- 
hind 
With    cankerous    heart    and     flesh, 

which  took  your  best, 
And  cursed  vou  tor  the  little  good  it 

did, 
(Could  any  leave  the  bedrid  wretch 

alone. 
So  jojdess  she  was  thankless  even  to 

God, 
]Much  more  to  you  ?)  he  did  not  say 

'twas  well. 
Yet  Marian  thought  he  did  not  take  it 

ill, 
Since  day  by  day  he  came,  and  every 

day 
She  felt  withiji  his  utterance  and  liis 

eyes 
A   closer,   tenderer    presence  of    the 

soul. 
Until  at  last  he  said,  "  We  shall  not 

part." 

On  that  same  day  was  Marian's  work 

complete: 
She  had  smoothed  the  empty  bed,  and 

swept  the  floor 
Of  cotifln  sawdust,  set  the  chairs  anew 
The  dead  had   ended  gossip  in,  and 

stood 
In  that  poor  room  so  cold  and  orderly; 
The  door-key  in  her  hand,  prepared 

to  go 
As  they  had,  howbeit  not  their  way. 

He  spoke. 

"  Dear  Marian,  of  one  clay  God  made 
us  all ; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  though  men  push  and  poke  and 

paddle  in't, 
(As  children  play  at  fashioning  dirt- 
pies) 
And  call  their  fancies  by  the  name  of 

facts, 
Assuming  difference,  lordship,  jirivi- 

lege, 
When  all's  plain  dirt,  they  come  back 

to  it  at  last: 
The  first  grave-digger  proves  it  with 

a  spade, 
And  pats  all  even.    Need  we  wait  for 

this, 
You  MariaH,  and  I  Romney  ?  " 

She,  at  that. 
Looked  blindly  in  his  face,  as  when 

one  looks 
Through  driving  aiitumn-raius  to  find 

the  sky. 
He  went  on  speaking: 

"  Marian,  I  being  born 
What  men  call  noble,  and  you  issued 

from 
The  noble  people,  though  the  tyran- 
nous sword 
Which  pierced  Christ's  heart  has  cleft 

the  world  in  twain 
'Twixt  class  and  class,  opposing  rich 

to  poor, 
Shall  M-e  keep  parted?    Not  so.     Let 

us  lean 
And  strain  together  rather,  each  to 

each, 
Compress  the  red  lips  of  this  gaping 

wound 
As  far  as  two  souls  can,  ay,  lean  and 

league,  — 
I  from  my  superabundance,  from  your 

want 
You,  —  joining  in  a  protest  'gainst  the 

wrong 
On  both  sides." 

All  the  rest  he  held  her  hand 
In  speaking,  which  confused  the  sense 

of  much. 
Her  heart  against  his  words  beat  out 

so  thick. 
They  might  as  well  be  written  on  the 

dust 
Where  some  poor  bird,  escaping  from 

hawk's  beak. 
Has  dropped,  and  beats  its  shudder- 
ing wings,  the  lines 
Are  rubbed  so;  yet  'twas  something 

like  to  this: 
'  •  That  they  two,  standing  at  the  two 

extremes 
Of  social  classes,  had  received  one  seal. 


Been  dedicate  and  drawn  beyond 
themselves 

To  mercy  and  ministration, — he,  in- 
deed, 

Through  what  he  knew,  and  she, 
through  what  she  felt; 

He,  by  man's  conscience,  she,  by  wo- 
man's heart. 

Relinquishing  their  several  'vantage 
posts 

Of  wealthy  ease  and  honorable  toil. 

To  work  with  God  at  love.  And  since 
God  willed. 

That,  putting  out  his  hand  to  touch 
this  ark, 

He  found  a  woman's  hand  there,  he'd 
accept 

The  sign  too,  hold  the  tender  fingers 
fast. 

And  say,  '  My  fellow-worker,  be  my 
w'ite  !  •  '■' 

She  told  the  tale  with  simple,  rustic 

turn.s. 
Strong  leaps  of  meaning  in  her  sud- 
den eyes 
That  took  the  gaps  of  any  imperfect 

phrase 
Of    the  unschooled  speaker:  I   have 

rather  writ 
The  thing  I  understood  so  than  the 

thing 
I  heard  so.      And  I  cannot    render 

right 
Her    quick    gesticulation,    wild    yet 

soft, 
Self-startled  from  the  habitual  mood 

she  used. 
Half  sad,  half  languid,  —  like  dumb 

creatures  (now 
A  rustling  bird,  and  now  a  wandering 

deer. 
Or  squirrel  'gainst  the  oak-gloom  flash- 
ing up 
His  sidelong,  burnished  head,  in  just 

her  way 
Of  savage  spontaneity,)  that  stir 
Abruptly  the    green    silence   of    the 

woods. 
And  make  it  stranger,  holier,  more 

profound ; 
As  Nature's  general  heart  confessed 

itself 
Of  life,   and   then  fell  backward  on 

repose. 


I   kissed  the  lips  that  ended. 

indeed , 
He  loves  vou.  Marian  ?  " 


■So, 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


63 


"  Loves  iiie  !  "    She  looked  up 
With  a  child's  wonder  when  you  ask 

him  first 
Who  made  the  sun,  —  a  puzzled  blush, 

that  grew, 
Then  broke   off    in  a  rapid,  radiant 

smile 
Of  sure  solution.     "  Loves  me  !    He 

loves  all. 
And    me,   of    course.      He    had    not 

asked  me  else 
To  work  with  him  forever,  and  be  his 

wife." 

Her  words  reproved  me.    This,  per- 
haps, was  love,  — 
To  have  its  hands  too  full  of  gifts  to 

give, 
For  putting  out  a  hand  to  take  a  gift; 
To  love  so  much,  the  perfect  round  of 

love 
Includes  in    strict   conclusion  being 

loved; 
As  Eden-dew  went  up,  and  fell  again. 
Enough    for  watering  Eden.     Obvi- 
ously 
She  had  not  thought  about  his  love  at 

all. 
The  cataracts  of  her  soul  had  poured 

themselves, 
And  risen  self-crowned  in   rainbow: 

would  she  ask 
Who  crowned  her  ?    It  sufficed  that 

she  was  crowned. 
With  women  of  my  class  'tis  other- 
wise : 
We  haggle  for  the   small  change   of 

our  gold. 
And  so  much  love  accord  for  so  much 

love, 
Rialto-prices.       Are     we      therefore 

wrong  ? 
If  marriage  be  a  contract,  look  to  it 

then. 
Contracting  parties  should  be  equal, 

just; 
But  if,  a  simple  fealty  on  one  side, 
A  mere    religion,    right    to    give,    is 

all. 
And  certain  brides  of  Europe  duly 

ask 
To  mount  the  pile  as  Indian  widows 

do. 
The    spices    of    their    tender    youth 

heaped  up. 
The  jewels  of  their  gracious  virtues 

worn. 
More  gems,  more  glory,  to  consume 

entire 


For  a  living  husband:  as  the  man'-s 

alive. 
Not  dead,  the   woman's  duty   by  so 

much 
Advanced  in  England  beyond  Hindo- 

stan. 

I  sate  there  musing,  till  slie  touched 

my  hand 
With  hers,  as  softly  as  a  strange  white 

bird 
She   feared    to    startle    in    touching. 

"  You  are  kind. 
But  are  you,  peradventure,  vexed  at 

heart 
Because  your  cousin  takes  me   for  a 

wife? 
I  know  I  am  not  worthy  —  nay,  in 

truth, 
I'm    glad    on't,    since,    for    that,   he 

chooses  me. 
He  likes  the  poor  things  of  the  world 

the  best; 
I  would  not,  therefore,  if  I  could,  be 

rich. 
It  pleasures  him  to  stoop  for  buttei-- 

cups. 
I  would  not  be  a  rose  upon  the  wall 
A  queen  might  stop  at,  near  the  pal- 
ace-door. 
To  say  to  a  courtier,  '  Pluck  that  rose 

for  me: 
It's  prettier  than  the  rest.'     O  Rom- 

ney  Leigh! 
I'd  rather  far  be  trodden  l)y  his  foot 
Than  lie  in  a  great  queen's  bosom." 

Out  of  breath. 
She  paused. 

"  Sweet  Marian,  do  you  disavow 
The  roses  with  that  face  ?  " 

She  dropt  her  heati 
As  if  the  wind  had  caught  that  flower 

of  her 
And    bent    it    in    the    garden,    then 

looked  up 
With  grave  assurance.     "  Well,   you 

think  me  bold ; 
But  so  we  all  are,  when  we're  pray- 
ing God. 
And  if  I'm  bold,  yet,  lady,  credit  me. 
That  since  I  know  myself  for  what  I 

am,  — 
Much  fitter  for  his  handmaid  than  his 

wife,  — 
I'll  prove  the  handmaid  and  the  wife 

at  once. 
Serve  tenderly,  and  love  obediently. 
And    be    a  worthier  mate,   perhaps, 

than  some 


64 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


"Who  are  wooed  in  silk  among  their 

learned  books; 
While  I  shall  set  myself  to  read  his 

eyes, 
Till  such  grow  plainer  to  me  than  the 

French 
To  wisest  ladies.     Do  you  think  I'll 

miss 
S.  letter  in  the  spelling  of  his  mind  ? 
No  more  than  they  do  when  they  sit 

and  write 
Their    flying    words    with    flickering 

wild-fowl  tails, 
Nor  ever   pau^e    to  find  how  many 

Should  that  be  y  or  i,  they  know't  so 
well : 

I've  seen  them  writing,  when  I 
brought  a  dress 

And  waited,  floating  out  their  soft 
white  hands 

On  shining  paper.  But  they're  hard 
sometimes. 

For  all  those  hands.  We've  used  out 
many  nights. 

And  worn  the  yellow  daylight  into 
shreds 

Which  flapped  and  shivered  down  our 
aching  eyes 

Till  night  appeared  more  tolerable, 
just 

That  pretty  ladies  might  look  beau- 
tiful, 

Who  said  at  last  .  .  .  '  You're  lazy 
in  that  house! 

You're  slow  in  sending  home  the 
work:  I  count 

I've  waited  near  an  hourfor't.'  Par- 
don me, 

I  do  not  blame  them,  madam,  nor 
misprise : 

They  are  fair  and  gracious;  ay,  but 
not  like  you. 

Since  none  but  you  has  Mister  Leigh's 
own  blood. 

Both  noble  and  gentle,  —  and  with- 
out it  .  .  .  well, 

They  are  fair,  I  said ;  so  fair,  it  scarce 
seems  strange 

That,  flashing  out  in  any  looking- 
glass 

The  wonder  of  their  glorious  brows 
and  breasts. 

They're  charmed  so,  they  forget  to 
look  behind, 

And  mark  how  pale  we've  grown,  we 
pitiful 

Remainders  of  the  world.  And  so 
perhaps 


If  Mister  Leigh  had  chosen  a  wife 

from  these. 
She  might,  although  he's  better  than 

her  best. 
And  dearly  she  would  know  it,  steal 

a  thought 
Which  should  be  all  his,  an  eye-glance 

from  his  face. 
To  plunge  into  the  mirror  opposite 
In  search  of  her  own  beauty's  pearl : 

while  I  .  .  . 
Ah,  dearest  lady,  serge  will  outweigh 

silk 
For   winter-wear,   when    bodies   feel 

a^cold. 
And  I'll  be  a  true  wife  to  your  cousin 

Leigh." 

Before  I  answered,  he  was  there  him- 
self. 

I  think  he  had  been  standing  in  the 
room. 

And  listened    probably  to    half   her 
talk. 

Arrested,  turned  to  stone, — as  white 
as  stone. 

Will  tender  sayings  make  men  look 
so  white  ? 

He  loves  her  then  profoundly. 

"  You  are  here, 

Aurora?    Here  I  meet  you!"     We 
clasped  hands. 

"  Even  so,  dearRomney.    Lady  Wal- 

demar 
Has  sent  me  in  haste  to  find  a  cousin 

of  mine 
Who  shall  be." 

"  Lady  Waldemar  is  good." 

"  Here's  one,  at  least,  who  is  good," 
I  sighed,  and  touched 

Poor  Marian's  happy   head,  as  dog- 
like she. 

Most  passionately  patient,  waited  on, 

A-tremble    for  her  turn  of  greeting 
words ; 

"  I've  sate  a  full  hour  with  your  Mar- 
ian Erie, 

And  learnt  the  thing  by  heart,  and 
from  my  heart 

Am  therefore  competent  to  give  you 
thanks 

For  such  a  cousin." 

"  You  accept  at  last 

A    gift    from    me,    Aurora,    without 
scorn  ? 

At  last  I   please    you  ? "      How  his 
voice  was  changed! 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


65 


"  You  cannot  please  a  woman  against 
her  will, 

And  once  you  vexed  me.     Shall  we 
speak  of  that  ? 

We'll  say,  then,   you  were  noble  in 
it  all, 

And    I    not   ignorant  —  let  it    pass  ! 
And  now 

You  please  me,  Romney,  when   you 
please  yourself: 

So,  please  you,  be  fanatical  in  love, 

And  I'm  well  pleased.    Ah,  cousin  ! 
at  the  old  hall. 

Among  the  gallery  portraits  of  our 
Leighs, 

We  shall  not  find  a  sweeter  signory 

Thau  this  pure  forehead's." 

Not  a  word  he  said. 

How  arrogant  men  are!   Even  philan- 
thropists — 

Who  try  to  take  a  wife  up  in  the  way 

They  put  down  a  subscription-check, 
if  once 

She  turns,  and  says,  "I  will  not  tax 
you  so, 

Most  charitable  sir  "  — feel  ill  at  ease. 

As  though    she  had  wronged    them 
somehow.    I  suppose 

We  women  should  remember  what 
we  are, 

And  not  throw  back  an   obolus    in- 
scribed 

With  Csesar's   image  lightly.     I   re- 
sumed. 

"  It  strikes  me,  some  of  those  sub- 
lime Vandykes 

Were  not  too  proud  to  make  good 
saints  in  heaven ; 

And,  if  so,  then  they're  not  too  proud 
to-day, 

To  bow  down  (now  the  ruffs  are  off 
their  necks) 

And  own  this  good,  true,  noble  Mar- 
ian, yours. 

And  mine  I'll  say!    For  poets,  (bear 
the  word). 

Half-poets  even,  are  still  whole  demo- 
crats, — 

Oh,  not  that  we're   disloyal  to    the 
high, 

But  loyal  to  the  low,  and  cognizant 

Of  the  less  scrutable  majesties.     For 
me, 

I  comprehend  your  choice,  I  justify 

Your  right  in  choosing." 

"  No,  no,  no!  "  he  sighed, 

With  a  sort  of  melancholy  impatient 
scorn. 


As  some  grown  man  who  never  had 
a  child 

Puts  by  some  child  who  plays  at  be- 
ing a  man, 

"  You  md  not,  do  not,  can  not  com- 
prehend 

My  choice,  my  ends,  my  motives,  nor 
myself: 

No  matter  now  —  we'll  let  it  pass,  you 
say. 

I  thank  you  for  your  generous  cousin- 
ship 

Which  helps  this  present:   I  accept 
for  her 

Your  favorable  thoughts.    We're  fall- 
en on  days, 

We  two  who  are  not  poets,  when  to 
wed 

Requires  less  mutual  love  than  com- 
mon love 

For  two  together  to  bear  out  at  once 

Upon  the  loveless  many.    Work  in 
pairs. 

In  galley-couplings  or  in    marriage- 
rings. 

The  difference  lies  in  the  honor,  not 
the  work,  — 

And  such  we're  bound  to,  I  and  she. 
But  love, 

(You    poets    are    benighted    in    this 
age, 

The  hour's  too  late  for  catching  even 
moths. 

You've  gnats  instead,)  love  !  —  love's 
fool-paradise 

Is  out  of  date,  like  Adam's.     Set  a 
swan 

To    swim    the    Trenton   rather  than 
true  loA^e 

To  float  its  fabulous  plumage  safely 
down 

The  cataracts  of  this  loud  transition- 
time, 

Whose  roar  forever  henceforth  in  my 
ears 

Must  keep  me  deaf  to  music." 

There,  I  turned 

And  kissed  poor  Marian,  out  of  dis- 
content. 

The  man  had  baffled,  chafed  me,  till 
I  flung 

For  refuge  to  the  woman,  as  some- 
times, 

Impatient  of    some  crowded  room's 
close  smell. 

You  throw  a  window  open,  and  lean 
out 

To  breathe  a  long  breath  in  the  dewy 
night. 


G6 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


And  cool  your  angry  forehead.  She, 
at  least, 

Was  not  built  up  as  walls  are,  brick 
by  brick, 

Each  fancy  squared,  each  feeling 
ranged  by  line, 

The  very  heat  of  burning  youth  ap- 
plied 

To  indurate  form  and  system  !  excel- 
lent bricks, 

A  well-built  wall,  which  stops  you 
on  the  road. 

And  into  which  you  cannot  see  an 
inch 

Although  you  beat  your  head  against 
it  —  pshaw ! 

"  Adieu,"  I  said,  "  for  this  time,  cous- 
ins both, 

And  cousin  Romney,  pardon  me  the 
word. 

Be  happy,  —  oh  !  in  some  esoteric 
sense 

Of  course,  —  I  mean  no  harm  in  wish- 
ing well. 

Adieu,  my  Marian.  May  she  come 
to  me. 

Dear  Romney,  and  be  married  from 
my  house  ? 

It  is  not  part  of  your  philosophy 

To  keep  your  bird  upon  the  black- 
thorn ?  " 

"Ay, 

He  answered;  "  but  it  is.  I  take  my 
wife 

Directly  from  the  people;  and  she 
comes. 

As  Austria's  daughter  to  imperial 
France, 

Betwixt  her  eagles,  blinking  not  her 
race. 

From  Margaret's  Court  at  garret- 
height,  to  meet 

And  wed  me  at  St.  James's,  nor  put 
off 

Her  gown  of  serge  for  that.  The 
things  we  do. 

We  do:  we'll  wear  no  mask,  as  if  we 
blushed." 

"Dear  Romney,  you're  the  poet,"  I 

replied. 
But  felt  my  smile  too  mournful  for 

my  word, 
And  turned  and  went.    Ay,  masks,  I 

thought,  — beware 
Of    tragic  masks  we  tie  before    the 

glass. 
Uplifted  on  the  cothurn  half  r  yard 


Above  the  natural  stature  !  we  would 

play 
Heroic  parts   to  ourselves,  and  end, 

perhaps. 
As  impotently  as  Athenian  wives 
Who  shrieked  in  fits  at  the  Eumeni- 

des. 

His  foot  pursued  me  down  the  stair. 

"  At  least 
You'll  suffer  me  to  walk  with  you 

beyond 
These  hideous  streets,  these  graves, 

where  men  alive, 
Packed  close  with  earthworms,  burr 

unconsciously 
About  the  plague  that  slew  them :  let 

me  go. 
The  very  women   pelt  their  souls  in 

mud 
At  any  woman  who  walks  here  alone. 
How  came  you  here  alone  ?  —  you  are 

ignorant." 

We  had  a  strange  and  melancholy 
walk: 

The  night  came  drizzling  downward 
in  dark  rain. 

And  as  we  walked,  the  color  of  the 
time. 

The  act,  the  presence,  my  hand  upon 
his  arm. 

His  voice  in  my  ear,  and  mine  to  my 
own  sense. 

Appeared  unnatural.  We  talked 
modern  books 

And  daily  papers,  Spanish  marriage- 
schemes 

And  English  climate  —  was't  so  cold 
last  year  ? 

And  will  the  wind  change  by  to-mor- 
row morn  ? 

Can  Guizot  .stand?  is  London  full? 
is  trade 

Competitive  ?  has  Dickens  turned  his 
hinge 

A-pinch  upon  the  fingers  of  the  great  ? 

And  are  potatoes  to  grow  mythical 

Like  moly  ?  will  the  apple  die  out  too  ? 

Which  way  is  the  wind  to-night? 
south-east  ?  due  east  ? 

We  talked  on  fast,  while  every  com- 
mon word 

Seemed  tangled  with  the  thunder  at 
one  end. 

And  ready  to  pull  down  uijon  our 
heads 

A  terror  out  of  sight.  And  yet  to 
pause 


i 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


G7 


Were  surelier  mortal :  we  tore  greedi- 
ily  up 

All  silence,  all  the  innocent  breath- 
ing-points, 

As  if,  like  pale  conspirators  in  haste, 

We  tore  up  impers  where  our  signa- 
tures 

Imperilled  us  to  an  ugly  shame  or 
death. 

I  cannot  tell  you  why  it  was.  'Tis 
plain 

"We  had  not  loved  nor  hated:  where- 
fore dread 

To  spill  gunpowder  on  ground  safe 
from  fire  ? 

Perhaps  we  had  lived  too  closely  to 
diverge 

Ko  absolutely:  leave  two  clocks,  they 
say. 

Wound  up  to  different  hours,  iipon 
one  shelf, 

And  slowly,  througli  the  interior 
wheels  of  each, 

The  blind  mechanic  motion  sets  itself 

A-throb  to  feel  out  for  the  mutual 
time. 

It  was  not  so  with  us,  indeed:  while 
he 

Struck  midnight,  I  kept  striking  six 
at  dawn ; 

While  he  marked  judgment,  I,  re- 
demption-day: 

And  such  exception  to  a  general  law 

Imperious  upon  inert  matter  even, 

IVIight  make  us,  each  to  either,  inse- 
cure, 

A  beckoning  mystery,  or  a  troubling 
fear. 

I  mind  me,  when  we  i)arted  at  the 
door. 

How  strange  his  good-night  sounded, 
—  like  good-night 

Beside  a  deathbed,  where  the  mor- 
row's sun 

Is  sure  to  come  too  late  for  more  good 
days. 

And  all  that  night  I  thought  .  .  . 
"  Good-night,"  said  he. 

And  so  a  month  passed.     Let  me  set 

it  down 
At  once,  —  I  have  been  wrong,  I  liave 

been  wrong. 
We  are  wrong  always  when  we  think 

too  much 
Of  what  we  think  or  are:  albeit  our 

thoughts 


Be  verily  bitter  as  self-sacrifice. 
We're  no  less  selfish.    If  we  sleep  on 

rocks 
Or  roses,  sleeping  past  the   hour  of 

noon. 
We're  lazv.     This  I  write  against  mj-- 

self,' 
I  had  done  a  duty  in  the  visit  paid 
To  Marian,  and  was  ready  otherwise 
To  give  the  witness  of  my  presence 

and  name 
Whenever  she  should  marry.    Which, 

I  thought. 
Sufficed.     I   even  had  cast  int(j   the 

scale 
An  overweight  of  justice  toward  the 

match. 
The  Lady  Waldemar  liad  missed  her 

tool. 
And  broken  it  in  the  lock  as  being  too 

straight 
For  a  crooked   purpose;  while   poor 

Marian  Erie  , 

Missed  nothing  in  my  accents  or  my 

acts : 
I  had   not   been    ungenerous  on  the 

whole, 
Nor  yet    untender :    so    enough.      I 

felt 
Tired,    overworked:     this    marriage 

somewhat  jarred ; 
Or,  if  it  did  not,  all  the  bridal  noise. 
The  pricking  of  the  map  of  life  with 

pins, 
In  schemes  of  ...  "  Here  we'll  go," 

and  "  There  we'll  stay," 
And  "  Everywhere  we'll  prosper  in 

our  love," 
Was  scarce  my  business:    let   them 

order  it: 
Who  else  should  care  ?    I  threw  my- 
self aside. 
As  one  who  had  done  her  work,  and 

shuts  her  eyes 
To  rest  the  better. 

I,  who  should  have  known, 
Forereckoned  mischief  1     Where   we 

disavow 
Being  keeper  to  our  brother,  we're  his 

Cain. 

I  might  have  held  that  poor  child  to 

■my  heart 
A  little  longer  !    'twould  have  hurt 

me  much 
To  have  hastened  by  its  beats  the 

marriage-day, 
And  kept  her  safe    meantime   from 

tampering  hands, 


t 


I 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Or,  peradventure,  traps.     What  drew 

me  back 
Prom  telling  Romney  plainly  the  de- 
signs 
Of  Lady  Waldemar,  as  spoken  out 
To  me  .  .  .  me  ?  had  I  any  right,  ay, 

right, 
With  womanly  compassion  and  re- 
serve 
To  break  the  fall  of  woman's  impu- 
dence?— 
To  stand  by  calmly,  knowing  what  I 

knew, 
And  hear  him  call  her  good  ? 

Distrust  that  word. 
"  There  is  none  good  save  God,"  said 

Jesus  Christ 
If  he  once,  in  the  first  creation-week. 
Called  creatures  good,  forever  after- 
ward. 
The  Devil  only  has  done  it,  and  his 

heirs. 
The  knaves  who  win  so,  and  the  fools 

who  lose  : 
The  word's  grown  dangerous.    In  the 

middle  age 
I   think  they  called  malignant  fays 

and  imps 
Good  people.    A  good  neighbor,  even 

in  this. 
Is  fatal  sometimes,  cuts  your  morning 

up 
To  mince-meat  of  the  very  smallest 

talk. 
Then    helps   to  sugar  her  bohea    at 

night 
With  your  reputation .    I  have  known 

good  wives, 
As  chaste,  or  nearly  so,  as  Potiphar's; 
And  good,  good  mothers,  who  would 

use  a  child 
To  better  an  intrigue ;  good  friends, 

beside, 
(Very    good)    who    hung    succinctly 

round  your  neck 
And  sucked  your  breath,  as  cats  are 

fabled  to  do 
By  sleeping  infants.    And  we  all  have 

known 
Good  critics  who  have  stamped  out 

poet's  hope. 
Good  statesmen  who  pulled  ruin  on 

the  state. 
Good  patriots  who  for  a  theory  risked 

a  cause, 
Good  kings  who  disembowelled  for  a 

tax, 
Good  popes  who  brought  all  good  to 

jeopardy, 


Good  Christians  who  sate  still  in  easy- 
chairs 

And  damned  the  general  world  for 
standing  up. 

Now  may  the  good  God  pardon  all 
good  men  ! 

How  bitterly  I  speak  !   how  certainly 
The  innocent  white  milk    in    us    is 

turned 
By  much  persistent  shining  of    the 

sun  ! 
Shake  up  the  sweetest    in    us    long 

enough 
With  men,  it  drops  to  foolish  curd, 

too  sour 
To  feed  the  most  untender  of  Christ's 

lambs. 

I  should  have  thought,  —  a  woman  of 
the  world 

Like  her  I'm  meaning,  centre  to  her- 
self 

Who  has  wheeled  on  her  own  pivot 
half  a  life 

In  isolated  self-love  and  self-will, 

As  a  windmill  seen  at  distance  radi- 
ating 

Its  delicate  white  vans  against  the 
sky, 

So  soft  and  soundless,  simply  beauti- 
ful, 

Seen  nearer,  —  what  a  roar  and  tear 
it  makes. 

How  it  grinds  and  bruises  !  —  if  she 
loves  at  last. 

Her  love's  a  re-adjustment  of  self- 
love, 

No  more,  —  a  need  felt  of  another's 
use 

To  her  one  advantage,  as  the  mill 
wants  grain, 

The  fire  wants  fuel,  the  very  wolf 
wants  prey. 

And  none  of  these  is  more  unscrupu- 
lous 

Than  such  a  charming  woman  when 
she  loves. 

She'll  not  be  thwarted  by  an  obstacle 

So  trifling  as  .  .  .  her  soul  is  .  .  . 
much  less  yours  !  — 

Is  God  a  consideration? — she  loves 
you, 

Not  God  :  she  will  not  flinch  for  him 
indeed : 

She  did  not  for  the  Marchioness  of 
Perth, 

When  wanting  tickets  for  the  fancy 
ball. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


She   loves  yon,  sir,  with  passion,  to 

lunacy. 
She  loves  you  like  her  diamonds  .  .  . 

almost. 

Well, 
A  month  passed  so,  and  then  the  no- 
tice came. 
On  such  a  day  the  marriage  at  the 

church: 
I  was  not  backward. 

Half  Saint  Giles  in  frieze 
"Was  bidden  to  meet  Saint  James  in 

cloth-of-gold, 
And,  after  contract  at  the  altar,  pass 
To  eat  a  marriage-feast    on    Hamp- 

stead  Heath. 
Of  course  the  people  came  in  uncom- 

pelled, 
Lame,   blind,   and  worse;   sick,   sor- 
rowful, and  worse; 
The  humors    of    the    peccant    social 

wound 
All  pressed  out,  poured  down  upon 

Pimlico, 
Exasperating  the  unaccustomed  air 
With  a  hideous  interfusion.    You'd 

suppose 
A  finished  generation,  dead  of  plague, 
Swept  outward  from  theii"  graves  into 

the  sun. 
The  moil  of  death  upon  them.    What 

a  sight! 
A  holiday  of  miseralile  men 
Is  sadder  than  a  burial-day  of  kings. 

They  clogged  the  streets,  they  oozed 
into  the  church 

In  a  dark  slow  stream,  like  blood. 
To  see  that  sight, 

The  noble  ladies  stood  up  in  their 
pews. 

Some  pale  for  fear,  a  few  as  red  for 
hate, 

Some  simply  curious,  some  just  inso- 
lent. 

And  some  in  wondering  scorn, "  What 
next  ?  what  next  ?  " 

These  crushed  their  delicate  rose  lips 
from  the  smile 

That  misbecame  them  in  a  holy 
place, 

With  l)roidered  hems  of  perfumed 
handkerchiefs ; 

Those  passed  the  salts,  with  confi- 
dence of  eyes, 

And  simultaneous  shiver  of  moire 
silk; 

While  all  the  aisles,  alive  and  black 
with  heads. 


Crawled  slowly  toward  the  altar  from 

the  street. 
As  bruised  snakes  crawl  and  hiss  out 

of  a  hole 
With  shuddering  involution,  swaying 

slow 
From  right  to  left,  and  then  from  left 

to  right. 
In  pants  and  pauses.     What  an  ugly 

crest 
Of  faces  rose  upon  you  everywhere 
From  that  crammed  mass  !  you  did 

not  usually 
See    faces    like    them    in    the    open 

day : 
They  hide  in  cellars,  not  to  make  you 

mad 
As  Romney  Leigh  is.    Faces  !     O  my 

God, 
We  call  those  faces  ?  —  men's  and  wo- 
men's  .  .  .  ay. 
And  children's;  babies,  hanging  like 

a  rag 
Forgotten  on   their  mother's  neck  — 

poor  mouths. 
Wiped  clean    of    mother's    milk    by 

mother's  blow 
Before  they  are  taught  her  cursing. 

Faces  ?  .  .   .  phew. 
We'll  call  them  vices,   festering    to 

despairs. 
Or  sorrows,  petrifying  to  vices;  not 
A  finger-touch  of  God  left  whole  on 

them. 
All  ruined,  lost,  the  countenance  worn 

out 
As  the  garment,  the  will  dissolute  as 

the  act. 
The  passions  loose  and  draggling  in 

the  dirt. 
To  trip  a  foot  up  at  the  first   free 

step  ! 
Those  faces  ?  —  'twas  as  if  you  had 

stirred  up  hell 
To  heave  its  lowest  dreg-fiends  upper- 
most 
In  fiery  swirls  of  slime,  such  strangled 

fronts, 
Such  obdurate  jaws,  were  thrown  up 

constantly 
To  twit  you  with  your  race,  corrupt 

your  blood. 
And  grind  to  devilish  colors  all  your 

dreams 
Henceforth,  though  haply  you  should 

drop  asleep 
By  clink  of  silver  waters,  in  a  muse 
On  Raffael's  mild  Madonna   of   the 

Bird. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


I've  waked  and  slept  through  many 

nights  and  days 
Since  then  ;   but  still   that  day  will 

catch  my  breath 
Like   a  nightmare.     There  are  fatal 

days,  indeed, 
In  which  the  fibrous  years  have  taken 

root 
So  deeply,  that  they  quiver  to  their 

tops 
Whene'er  you  stir  the  dust  of  such  a 

day. 

My  cousin  met  me  with  his  eyes  and 
hand , 

And  then,  with  just  a  word,  .  .  .  that 
"Marian  Erie 

"Was  coming  with  her  bridesmaids 
presently," 

Made  haste  to  place  me  by  the  altar- 
stair 

Where  he  and  other  noble  gentlemen 

And  high-born  ladies  waited  for  the 
bride. 

We  waited.  It  was  early:  there. was 
time 

For  greeting  and  the  morning's  com- 
pliment; 

And  gradually  a  ripple  of  women's 
talk 

Arose  and  fell,  and  tossed  about  a 
spray 

Of  English  ss,  soft  as  a  silent  hush, 

And,  notwithstanding,  quite  as  au- 
dible 

As  louder  phrases  thrown  out  by  the 
men. 

—  "  Yes,  really,  if  Ave  need  to  wait  in 
church 

We  need  to  talk  there."  —  "  She  ?  'tis 
Lady  Ayr, 

In  blue,  not  purple!  that's  the  dow- 
ager." 

"She  looks  as  young"  —  "She  flirts 
as  young,  you  mean. 

Why,  if  you  had  seen  her  upon  Thurs- 
day night. 

You'd  call  Miss  Norris  modest."  — 
"  You  again ! 

I  waltzed  with  you  three  hours  back. 
Uj)  at  six. 

Up  still  at  ten ;  scarce  time  to  change 
one's  shoes: 

I  feel  as  white  and  sulky  as  a  ghost. 

So  prav  don't  speak  to  me.  Lord 
Belcher."  —  "  No, 

I'll  look  at  you  instead,  and  it's 
enough 


While  you    have    that    face."  —  "In 
church,  my  lord!  fie,  fie!  " 

—  "Adair,   you  staid   for   the  Divis- 

ion?"—"Lost 
By  one."  —  "  The  devil  it  is!  I'm  sorry 

for't. 
And  if  I  had  not  promised  Mistress 

Grove"  .  .  . 
"  You  nught  have  kept  your  word  to 

Liverpool." 

—  "Constituents     must      remember, 

after  all, 
We're  mortal."  —  "We  remind  them 

of  it."  — "Hark, 
The  bride  comes!     here  she  comes  in 

a  stream  of  milk!  " 

—  "There?      Dear,    you    are    asleep 

still:  don't  you  know 
The    live    Miss    Granvilles  ?    always 

dressed  in  white 
To  show  they're  ready  to  be  married." 

"Lower! 
The  aunt  is  at  your  elbow."  —  "  Lady 

Maud, 
Did  Lady  Waldemar  tell  you  she  had 

seen 
This  girl  of  Leigh's  ?  "—  "  No  —  wait! 

'twas  Mistress  Brookes 
Who  told   me  Lady  Waldemar  told 

her  — 
No,   '  twasn't    Mistress    Brookes."  — 

"She's  pretty  ?  "  —  "  Who  ? 
Mistress    Brookes?       Lady    Walde- 
mar ?—"  How  hot ! 
Pray  is't  the  law  to-day  we're  not  to 

breathe  ? 
You're    treading    on    my    shawl  —  I 

thank  you,  sir." 
— "  Thej'  say  the  bride's  a  mere  child, 

who  can't  read, 
But  knows  the  things  she  shouldn't, 

with  wide-awake 
Great  eyes.     I'd  go  through  fire  to 

look  at  her." 

—  "You  do,  I  think."  — "And  Lady 

Waldemar 
(You  see  her;  sitting  close  to  Romney 

Leigh. 
How    beautiful    she    looks,    a    little 

flushed!) 
Has  taken  up  the  girl,  and  methodized 
Leigh's  folly.     Should   I  have  come 

here,  you  suppose, 
Except    she'd    ask    me?"  — "She'd 

have  served  him  more 
By  marrying  him  herself." 

"  Ah  —  there  she  comes, 
The  bride,  at  last!  " 

"  Indeed,  no.     Past  eleven. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


She  puts  off  her  patched  petticoat  to- 
day 

And  puts  on  May-fair  manners,   so 
begins 

By  setting  us  to  wait."  —  "Yes,  yes, 
this  Leigh 

Was  always  odd:   it's  in  the  blood, 
I  think. 

His  father's  uncle's  cousin's  second 
son 

"Was,   was  .  .  .  you   understand  me; 
and  for  hiui, 

He's  stark  —  has  turned  quite  lunatic 
upon 

This  modern  question  of  the  poor  — 
the  poor. 

An    excellent    subject    when    you're 
moderate. 

You've  seen  Prince  Albert's  model 
lodging-house  ? 

Does  honor  to  his  Royal  Highness. 
Good  ! 

But  would  he  stop  his   carriage    in 
Cheapside 

To  shake  a  common  fellow  by  the  fist 

Whose    name  was  .  .  .  Shakspeare? 
no.    We  draw  a  line; 

And  if  we  stand  not  by  our  order,  we 

In  England,  we  fall  headlong.    Here's 
a  sight,  — 

A    hideous    sight,    a    most    indecent 
sight ! 

My  wife  would  come,  sir,  or   I   bad 
kept  her  back. 

By  heaven,  sir,  when  poor  Damiens' 
trunk  and  limbs 

Were  torn  by  horses,  women  of  the 
court 

Stood  by  and  stared,  exactly  as  to-day 

On  this  dismembering  of  society. 

With  pretty,  troubled  faces." 

"  Now,  at  last. 

She  comes  now." 

"  Where  ?   who  sees  ?  you  push   me, 
sir. 

Beyond  the  point  of  what  is  manner- 
ly- 

You're  standing,  madam,  on  my  sec- 
ond flounce. 

I  do  beseech  you  "... 

"  No —  it's  not  the  bride. 

Half-past    eleven.     How   late  !     The 
bridegroom,  mark, 

Gets  anxious  and  goes  out." 

"And,  as  I  said, 

These  Leighs  !  our  best  blood  running 
in  the  rut ! 

It's  something  awful.     We  had  par- 
doned hira 


A  simple  misalliance  got  up  aside 

For  a  pair  of  sky-blue  eyes:  the  House 
of  Lords 

Has  winked  at  such  things,  and  we've 
all  been  young. 

But  here's  an  intermarriage  reasoned 
out, 

A  contract  (carried  Ijoldly  to  the  light 

To  challenge  observation,  pioneer 

Good  acts  by  a  great  example)  'twixt 
the  extremes 

Of  martyrized  society,  —  on  the  left 

The  well-born,  on  the  right  the  mer- 
est mob. 

To  treat  as  equals  !  —  'tis  anarchical; 

It  means  more  than  it  says;  'tis  dam- 
nable. 

Why,  sir,  we  can't  have  even  our  cof- 
fee good, 

Unless  we  strain  it." 

"  Here,  Miss  Leigh  !  " 
"  Lord  Howe, 

You're  Romney's  friend.     What's  all 
tliis  waiting  for?  " 

"I  cannot  tell.    The   bride   has  lost 
her  head 

(And  way,  perhaps)  to  prove  her  sym- 
pathy 

With  the  bridegroom." 

"  What,  —  you  also  disapprove  !  " 

"  Oh,   /   approve  of    nothing  in  the 

world," 
He  answered,  "  not  of  you,  still  less 

of  me. 
Nor  even  of    Romney,   though    he's 

worth  us  both. 
We're  all  gone  wrong.    The  tune  in 

us  is  lost; 
And  whistling  down  back  alleys  to 

the  moon 
W^ill  never  catch  it." 

Let  me  draw  Lord  Howe. 
A  born  aristocrat,  bred  radical, 
And  educated  socialist,  who  still 
Goes   floating,    on   traditions    of    his 

kind. 
Across     the     theoretic     flood     from 

France, 
Though,  like  a  drenched  Noah  on  a 

rotten  deck, 
Scarce  safer  for  his  place  there.     He, 

at  least, 
Will  never  land  on  Ararat,  he  knows, 
To  recommence  the  world  on  the  new 

plan: 
Indeed,  he  thinks  said  world  liad  bet< 

ter  end. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


He  sympathizes  rather  with  the  fish 

Outside     than    with     the     drowned 
paired  beasts  witliiu, 

Who  cannot  couple  again  or  multi- 
ply, — 

And  that's  the  sort  of  Noah  he  is, 
Lord  Howe. 

He   never  could  be  any  thing  com- 
plete, 

Except  a  loyal,  upright  gentleman, 

A  liberal  landlord,  graceful  diner-out, 

And  entertainer  more  than   hospita- 
ble, 

Whom  authors  dine  with,  and  forget 
the  hock. 

Whatever  he  believes,  and  it  is  much. 

But  nowise   certain,   now  here    and 
now  there. 

He  still  has  sympathies  beyond  his 
creed 

Diverting  him  from  action.    In  the 
House 

No  party  counts  upon  him,  while  for 
all 

His     speeches     have     a     noticeable 
weight. 

Men  like  his  books  too  (he  has  writ- 
ten books). 

Which,  safe  to  lie  beside  a  bishop's 
chair, 

At  times  outreach    themselves  with 
jets  of  lire 

At  which  the  foremost  of  the  progress- 
ists 

May  warm  audacious  hands  in  pass- 
ing by. 

Of    stature    over-tall,    lounging    for 
ease; 

Light  hair,  that  seems  to  carry  a  wind 
in  it; 

And  eyes,  that,  when  they  look  on 
you,  will  lean 

Their  whole  weight,  half  in  indolence, 
and  half 

In  wishing  you  unmitigated  good. 

Until  you  know  not  if  to  flinch  from 
him. 

Or  thank  him.  —  'Tis  Lord  Howe. 

"  We're  all  gone  wrong," 

Said  he;   "and    Romney,   that   dear 
friend  of  ours, 

Is  nowise  right.     There's  one    true 
thing  on  earth. 

That's    love:    he    takes    it    up,    and 
dresses  it. 

And  acts  a  play  with  it,  as  Hamlet 
did, 

To  show  what  cruel  uncles  we  have 
been, 


And  how  we  should  be  uneasy  in  our 

minds, 
While    he.   Prince    Hamlet,   weds    a 

pretty  maid 
(Who  keeps  us  too  long  waiting  we'll 

confess) 
By  symbol  to  instruct  us  formally 
To  fill  the  ditches  up  'twixt  class  and 

class, 
And  live  together  in  phalansteries. 
What  then  ?  —  he's  mad,  our  Hamlet ! 

clap  his  play, 
And  bind  him." 

"  Ah,  Lord  Howe  !  this  spectacle 
Pulls  stronger  at  us  than  the  Dane's. 

See  there  ! 
The  crammed  aisles  heave  and  strain 

and  steam  with  life. 
Dear  Heaven,  what  life  !  " 

"  Why,  yes,  —  a  poet  sees; 
Which  makes  him  different  from  a 

common  man. 
I,  too,  see  somewhat,  though  I  can- 
not sing: 
I  should  have  been  a  poet,  only  that 
My  mother  took   fright  at  the   ugly 

world, 
And  bore  me  tongue-tied.    If  you'll 

grant  me  now 
That  Romney  gives  us  a  fine  actor- 
piece 
To  make  us  merry  on  his  marriage- 
morn, 
The  fable's  worse  than  Hamlet's  I'll 

concede. 
The  terrible  people,  old  and  poor  and 

blind. 
Their  eyes  eat  out  with  plague  and 

poverty 
From  seeing  beautiful  and  cheerful 

sights, 
We'll  liken  to  a  brutalized  King  Lear, 
Led    out,  —  by    no    means    to    clear 

scores  with  wrongs,  — 
His  wrongs  are  so  far  back,  he   has 

forgot 
(All's  past  like  youth);  but  just  to 

witness  here 
A  simple  contract,  —  he  upon  his  side, 
And  Kegan  with  her  sister  Goneril, 
And  all  the    dappled    courtiers  and 

court-fools, 
On  their  side.    Not  that  any  of  these 

would  say 
They're  sorry,  neither.    What  is  done 

is  done. 
And  violence  is  now  turned  privilege, 
As  cream  turns  cheese,  if  buried  long 

enough. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


73 


What  could  such  lovely  ladies  have 

to  do 
With  the  old  man  there  in  those  ill- 
odorous  rags, 
Except  to  keep  the  wind-side  of  him  ? 

Lear 
Is    flat     and     quiet,     as     a    decent 

grave : 
He  does  not  curse  his  daughters   in 

the  least. 
Be    these    his    daughters  ?     Lear    is 

thinking  of 
His  porridge  chiefly  ...  is  it  getting 

cold 
At    Hampstead?    will     the     ale    be 

served  in  pots  ? 
Poor  Lear,  poor  daughters  !     Bravo, 

Romney's  play." 

A  murmur    and  a  movement    drew 

around ; 
A  naked  whisper  touched  us.     Some- 
thing wrong  ! 
What's  wrong?     The  black    crowd, 

as  an  overstrained 
Cord,   quivered   in  vibration,   and   I 

saw  .  .  . 
Was  that    his    face  I  saw  ?  .  .  .  his 

.  .  .  Romney  Leigh's  .  .  . 
Which  tossed  a  sudden  horror  like  a 

sponge 
Into    all    eyes,   while  himself    stood 

white  upon 
The  topmost  altar-stair,  and  tried  to 

speak. 
And  failed,  and  lifted  higher  above 

his  head 
A  letter  ...  as  a  man  who   drowns 

and  gasps. 

"  My  brothers,  bear  with  me  !    I  am 

very  weak. 
I  meant  but  only  good.     Perhaps  I 

meant 
Too  proudly,  and  God  snatched  the 

circumstance. 
And    changed  it   therefore.    There's 

no  marriage  —  none. 
She  leaves  me,  —  she  deimrls, — she 

disappears, 
I  lose  her.    Yet  I  never  forced  her 

'ay,' 
To  have  her  'no'   so  cast  into  my 

teeth 
In  manner  of  an  accusation,  thus. 
My  friends  you  are  dismissed.    Go, 

eat  and  drink 
According    to  the  programme  —  and 

farewell ! " 


He  ended.    There  was  silence  in  the 

church. 
We  heard  a  baby  sucking  in  its  sleep 
At  the  farthest  end  of  the  aisle.   Then 

spoke  a  man, 
"Now,  look  to  it,  coves,  that  all  the 

beef  and  drink 
Be  not  filched  from  us,  like  the  other 

fun; 
For  beer's    spilt    easier  than   a  wo- 
man's lost ! 
This  gentry  is   not  honest  with  the 

poor: 
They  bring  us  up,  to  trick  us."  —  "Go 

it,  Jim ! " 
A  woman  screamed    back.     "  I"m  a 

tender  soul ; 
I  never  banged  a  child  at  two  years 

old. 
And    drew  blood    from    him,   but  I 

sobbed  for  it 
Next  moment,  and  I've  had  a  plague 

of  seven. 
I'm  tender:  I've  no  stomach  even  for 

beef, 
Until  I  know  about  the  girl   that's 

lost, 
That's    killed  mayhap.      I  did    mis- 
doubt at  first. 
The  flue  lord  meant  no  good  by  her 

or  us. 
He,  maybe,  got  the  upper  hand  of  her 
By  holding  up  a  wedding-ring,  and 

then  .  .  . 
A  choking  finger  on  her  throat  last 

night. 
And  just  a  clever  tale  to  keep  us  still, 
As  she  is,  poor  lost  innocent.  'Dis- 
appear !  ' 
Who  ever  disappears,  except  a  ghost? 
And  who  believes  a  story  of  a  ghost  ? 
I  ask  you,  would  a  girl  go  off,  instead 
Of    staying  to  be  married  ?    A  fine 

tale! 
A  wicked  man,  I  say,  a  wicked  man  I 
For  my  part  I  would  rather  starve  on 

gin 
Than  make  my  dinner  on  his  beef  and 

beer." 
At  which  a  cry  rose  up,  "  We'll  have 

our  rights. 
We'll  have  the  girl,  the  girl !    Your 

ladies  there 
Are    married    safely    and    smoothly 

every  day. 
And  she  shall  not  drop  through  into  a 

trap 
Because  she's  poor  and  of  the  people. 

Shame  ! 


i 


74 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


We'll  have  no  tricks  played  off  by 

gentle  folks. 
We'll  see  her  righted." 

Through  the  rage  and  roar 
I  heard  the  broken  words  which  Rom- 

ney  flung 
Among  the  turbulent   masses,  from 

the  ground 
He  held  still  with  his  masterful  pale 

face, 
As  huntsmen  throw  the  ration  to  the 

pack, 
Who,  falling  on   it  headlong  dog  on 

dog 
In  heaps  of  fury,  rend  it,  swallow  it 

up 
With    yelling    hound-jaws,  —  his    in- 
dignant words, 
His  suppliant  words,  his    most    pa- 
thetic words. 
Whereof  I  caught  the  meaning  here 

and  there 
By  his  gesture  .  .  .  torn  in  morsels, 

yelled  across. 
And  so  devoured.     From  end  to  end, 

the  church 
Rocked    round    us    like    the    sea    in 

storm,  and  then 
Broke  up  like  the   earth    in    earth- 
quake.   Men  cried  out, 
"  Police  !  "    and  women    stood,  and 

shrieked  for  God, 
Or  dropt  and  swooned ;  or,  like  a  herd 

of  deer, 
(For  whom  the  black  woods  suddenly 

grow  alive, 
Unleashing  their  wild  shadows  down 

the  wind 
To  hunt  the  creatures  into  corners, 

back 
And  forward),  madly  fled,  or  blindly 

fell. 
Trod  screeching  underneath  the  feet 

of  those 
Who  fled  and  screeched. 

The  last  sight  left  to  me 
Was    Romney's    terrible    calm    face 

above 
The    tumult.      The  last  sound  was, 

"  Pull  him  down  ! 
Strike — kill  him!"     Stretching  my 

unreasoning  arms, 
As  men  in  dreams,  who  vainly  inter- 
pose 
'Twixt  gods  and  their  undoing,  with 

a  cry 
I  struggled  to  precipitate  myself 
Headforemost  to  the  rescue  of    my 

soul 


In  that  white  face  .  .  .  till  some  one 

caught  me  back. 
And  so  the  world  went  out,  —  I  felt 

no  more. 

What  followed  was  told  after  by  Lord 
Howe, 

Who  bore  me  senseless  from  the 
strangling  crowd 

In  church  and  street,  and  then  re- 
turned alone 

To  see  the  tumult  quelled.  The  men 
of  law 

Had  fallen  as  thunder  on  a  roaring 
fire, 

And  made  all  silent,  while  the  peo- 
ple's smoke 

Passed  eddying  slowly  from  the  emp- 
tied aisles. 

Here's  Marian's  letter,  which  a  rag- 
ged child 
Brouglit  running,  just  as  Romney  at 

the  porch 
Looked  out  expectant  of  the  bride. 

He  sent 
The  letter  to  me  by  his  friend,  Lord 

Howe, 
Some   two  hours  after,   folded   in  a 

sheet 
On  which  his  well-known  hand  had 

left  a  word. 
Here's  Marian's  letter. 

"  Noble  friend,  dear  saint, 
Be  patient  with  me.    Never  think  me 

vile. 
Who   might    to-morrow  morning  be 

your  wife 
But  that  I  loved  you  more  than  such 

a  name. 
Farewell,  my  Romney.    Let  me  write 

it  once, — 
My  Romney. 

"  'Tis  so  pretty  a  coupled  word, 
I  have   no  heart  to  pluck  it  with  a 

blot. 
We  say,  '  My  God '  sometimes,  upon 

our  knees. 
Who  is  not  therefore  vexed :  so  bear 

with  it  .  .  . 
And  me.    I  know  I'm  foolish,  weak, 

and  vain ; 
Yet  most  of  all  I'm  angry  with  myself 
For  losing  your  last  footstep  on  the 

stair 
That  last  time  of  your  coming,  —  yes- 
terday ! 
The  very  first    time    I    lost  step  of 

yours. 


AURORA  LETGH. 


(Its  sweetness  comes  the  iiuxt  to  what 

yoti  speak,) 
But  yesterday  sobs  took  me  by  the 

throat 
And  cut  me  off  from  music. 

"  Mister  Leigh, 
You'll  set  me  down  as  wrong  in  many 

things. 
You've  praised  me,  sir,  for   truth  — 

and  now  you'll  learn 
I  had  not  courage  to  be  rightly  true. 
I   once    began  to  tell   you  how  she 

came, 
The  woman  .  .  .  and  you  stared  upon 

the  floor 
In   one  of  your  fixed  thoughts  .  .  . 

which  put  me  out 
For  that  day.    After,  some  one  spoke 

of  me 
So  wisely,  and  of  you  so  tenderly. 
Persuading  me  to    silence    for  your 

sake  .  .  . 
Well,  well !  it  seems  this  moment  I 

was  wrong 
In  keeping  back  from  telling  you  the 

truth : 
There  might  be  truth  betwixt  us  two, 

at  least. 
If  nothing  else.     And  yet  'twas  dan- 
gerous. 
Suppose    a    real    angel    came    from 

heaven 
To  live  with  men  and  women  !  he'd 

go  mad, 
If  no  considerate  hand  should  tie  a 

blind 
Across  his  piercing  eyes.     'Tis  thus 

with  you: 
You  see  us  too  much  in  your  heavenly 

light. 
I  always  thought  so,  angel,  and  in- 
deed 
There's  danger  that  you  beat  yourself 

to  death 
Against  the  edges  of  this  alien  world, 
In  some  divine  and  fluttering  pity. 

"Yes, 
It  would  be  dreadful  for  a  friend  of 

yours 
To  see  all  England  thrust  you  out  of 

doors, 
And  mock  you  from   the  windows. 

You  might  say, 
Or  think  (that's  worse), '  There's  some 

one  in  the  house 
I  miss  and  love  still.'    Dreadful ! 

"  Very  kind, 
I  pray  you,  mark,  was  Lady  Walde- 

mar. 


She  came  to  see  me  nine  times,  rather 

ten  — 
So  beautiful,  she  hurts  one   like  the 

day 
Let  suddenly  on  sick  eyes. 

"  Most  kind  of  all. 
Your    cousin  —  ah,    most    like    you  I 

Ere  you  came 
She  kissed  me  mouth  to  mouth:   I 

felt  her  soul 
Dip  through  her  serious  lips  in  holy 

fire. 
God  help  me;  but  it  made  me  arro- 
gant. 
I  almost  told  her  that  you  would  not 

lose 
By  taking  me  to  wife;   though  ever 

since 
I've  pondered  much  a  certain  thing 

she  asked  .  .  . 
'He  loves  you,  Marian?'  ...  in  a 

sort  of  mild 
Derisive    sadness  ...  as    a    mother 

asks 
Her  babe,  'You'll  touch    that  star, 

you  think  ? ' 

"  Farewell  ! 
I  know  I  never  touched  it. 

"  This  is  worst: 
Babes    grow,   and   lose    the  hope  of 

things  above: 
A  silver  threepence  sets  them  leaping 

high  — 
But  no  more  stars  !  mark  that. 

"  I've  writ  all  night. 
Yet  told  you  nothing.     God,  if  I  could 

die. 
And  let  this  letter  break  off  innocent 
Just      here !      But     no  —  for      your 

"  Here's  the  last: 
I  never  could  be  happy  as  your  wife, 
I  never  could   be  harmless  as  your 

friend, 
I  never  will  look  more  into  your  face 
Till  God  says, '  Look  ! '     I  charge  you 

seek  me  not, 
Nor   vex    yourself    with    lamentable 

thoughts 
That  i^erad venture  I   have  come  to 

grief; 
Be  sure  I'm  well,  I'm  merry,  I'm  at 

ease, 
But  such  a  long  way,  long  way,  long 

way  off, 
I  think  you'll  find  me  sooner  in  my 

grave. 
And  that's  my  choice,  observe.     For 

what  remains. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


An  over-generous  friend  will  care  for 

me, 
And  keep  me  happy  .  .  .  happier  .  .  . 
"  There's  a  blot ! 
This    ink    runs    thick  .  .  .  we    light 

girls  lightly  weep  .  .  . 
And   keep  me  happier  .  .  .  was  the 

thing  to  say, 
Than  as  your  wife  I  could  be.  —  Oh, 

my  star, 
My  saint,  my  soul  !  for  surely  you're 

my  soul, 
Through  whom  God  touched  me  !   I 

am  not  so  lost 
I  cannot  thank  you  for  the  good  you 

did. 
The  tears  you    stopped,   which    fell 

down  bitterly, 
Like  these — the  times  you  made  me 

weep  for  joy 
At  hoping  I  should  learn  to  write 

your  notes, 
And  save  the  tiring  of  your  eyes  at 

night; 
And  most  for  that  sweet  thrice  you 

kissed  my  lips. 
Saying,  '  Dear  Marian.' 

"  'T would  be  hard  to  read, 
This    letter,    for    a    reader    half    as 

learned ; 
But  you'll  be  sure  to  master  it  in 

spite 
Of  ups  and  downs.    My  hand  shakes, 

I  am  blind; 
I'm  poor  at  writing  at  the  best  —  and 

yet 
I  tried  to  make  my  ^s  the  way  you 

showed. 
Farewell !     Christ    love    you !     Say, 

'  Poor  Marian  ! '  now." 

Poor     Marian!  —  wanton    Marian!  — 

was  it  so. 
Or  so?    For  days,  her  touching,  fool- 
ish lines 
We  mused  on  with   conjectural  fan- 
tasy. 
As  if  some  riddle  of  a  summer-cloud 
On  which  one  tries  unlike  similitudes, 
Of  now  a  spotted  hydra-skin  cast  off. 
And  now  a  screen  of  carven  ivory 
That  shuts  the   heavens'  conventual 

secrets  up 
From  mortals  over-bold.     We  sought 

the  sense. 
She  loved  him  so  perhaps  (such  words 

mean  love,) 
That,  worked  on  by  some  shrewd  per- 
fidious tongue, 


(And  then  I  thought  of  Lady  Walde- 
mar) 

She  left  him  not  to  hurt  him;  or  per- 
haps 

She  loved  one  in  her  class;  or  did  not 
love. 

But  mused  upon  her  wild  bad  tramp- 
ing life. 

Until  the  free  blood  fluttered  at  her 
heart. 

And  black  bread  eaten  by  the  road- 
side hedge 

Seemed  sweeter  than  being  put  to 
Romney's  school 

Of  philanthropical  self-sacrifice 

Irrevocably.  Girls  are  girls,  be- 
side. 

Thought  I,  and  like  a  wedding  by  one 
rule. 

You  seldom  catch  these  birds  except 
with  chaff. 

They  feel  it  almost  an  immoral  thing 

To  go  out  and  be  married  in  broad 
day. 

Unless  some  winning  special  flattery 
should 

Excuse  them  to  themselves  for't.  .  .  . 
"  No  one  parts 

Her  hair  with  such  a  silver  line  as 
you. 

One  moonbeam  from  tlie  forehead  to 
the  crown!  " 

Or  else  ..."  You  bite  your  lip  in 
such  a  way 

It  spoils  me  for  the  smiling  of  the 
rest;  " 

And  so  on.  Then  a  worthless  gaud  or 
two 

To  keep  for  love,  — a  ribbon  for  the 
neck. 

Or  some  glass  pin,  —  they  have  their 
weight  with  girls. 

And  Romney  sought  her  many  days 

and  weeks. 
He  sifted  all  the  refuse  of  the  town, 
Explored  the  trains,  inquired  among 

the  ships, 
And  felt   the   country   through    from 

end  to  end; 
No  Marian!    Though  I  hinted  what 

I  knew,  — 
A  friend  of  his   had   reasons   of  her 

own 
For  throwing  back  the  match,  —  he 

would  not  hear: 
The  lady  had  been  ailing  ever  since, 
The  shock  had  harmed  her.     Some- 
thing in  his  tone 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


i  i 


Repressed  me ;  something  in  me 
shamed  my  doubt 

To  a  sigh  repressed  too.  He  went  on 
to  say, 

That,  putting  questions  where  his 
Marian  lodged. 

He  found  she  had  received  for  vis- 
itors — 

Besides  himself  and  Lady  Waldemar, 

And,  that  once,  me  —  a  dubious  wo- 
man dressed 

Beyond  us  both:  the  rings  upon  her 
hands 

Had  dazed  the  children  when  she 
threw  them  pence; 

"  She  wore  her  bonnet  as  the  queen 
might  hers, 

To  show  the  crown,"  they  said,  —  "a 
scarlet  crown 

Of  roses  that  had  never  been  in  bud." 

"When  Romney  told  me  that,  for  now 

and  then 
He  came  to  tell  me  how  the  search 

advanced, 
His  voice  dropped.   I  bent  forward  for 

the  rest. 
The  woman  had  been  with  her,  it  ajv 

peared. 
At  first  from  week  to  week,  then  day 

by  day 
And  last,  'twas  sure  .  .  . 

I  looked  upon  the  ground 
To  escape  the  anguish  of  his  eyes,  and 

asked, 
As  low  as  when  you  speak  to  mourn- 
ers new 
Of  those  they  cannot  bear  yet  to  call 

dead, 
"  If  Marian  had  as  much  as  named  to 

him 
A  certain  Rose,   an   early  friend   of 

hers, 
A  ruined  creature." 

"  Never!  "     Starting  up, 
He  strode  from  side  to  side  about  the 

room. 
Most  like  some  prisoned  lion  sprung 

awake. 
Who  has  felt   the  desert  sting   him 

through  his  dreams. 
"  What  was  I  to  lier,  that  she  should 

tell  me  aught  ? 
A  friend!  was  I  a  friend?    I  see  all 

clear. 
Such  devils  would  pull  angels  out  of 

heaven. 
Provided  they  could  reach  them:  'tis 

their  pride, 


And  that's  the  odds  'twixt  soul  and 

body  plague! 
The  veriest  slave  who  drops  in  Cairo's 

street 
Cries,  "Stand  off  from  me!"  to  the 

passengers; 
While  these  blotched  souls  are  eager 

to  infect. 
And  blow  their  bad  breath  in  a  sister's 

face, 
As  if  they  got  some  ease  by  it." 

I  broke  through. 

"  Some  natures  catch  no  plagues.    I've 
read  of  babes 

Found  whole,  and  sleeping    by    the 
sjiotted  breast 

Of  one  a  full  day  dead.     I  hold  it 
true, 

As  I'm  a  woman  and  know  woman- 
hood, 

That  Marian  Erie,  however  lured  from 
place, 

Deceived  in  way,  keeps  pure  in  aim 
and  heart 

As  snow  that's  drifted  from  the  gar- 
den-bank 

To  the  open  road." 

'Twas  hard  to  hear  him  laugh. 

"The  figure's  hapjjy.     Well,  a  dozen 
carts 

And  trampers  will  secure  you  pres- 
ently 

A  fine  white  snow-drift.      Leave    it 
there,  your  snow! 

'Twill  pass  for  soot  ere  sunset.     Pure 
in  aim  ? 

She's  pure  in  aim,  I  grant  you,  like 
myself. 

Who  thought  to  take  the  world  upon 
my  back 

To   carrj'  it  o'er  a  chasm   of    social 
ill. 

And  end  by  letting  slip,  through  im- 
potence, 

A  single  soul,  a  child's  Aveight  in  a 
soul. 

Straight  down  the  pit  of  hell!    Yes,  I 
and  she 

Have  reason  to  be  proud  of  our  pure 
aims." 

Then    softly,   as    the    last    repenting 
drops 

Of  a  thunder-shower,  he  added,  "  The 
poor  child. 

Poor  Marian!  'twas  a  luckless  day  for 
her. 

When  first  she  chanced  on  my  philan- 
thropy." 


I 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


He  drew  a  chair  beside  me,  and  sate 

down ; 
And  I  instinctively  —  as  women  use 
Before  a  sweet  friend's  grief,  when 

in  his  ear 
They  hum  the  tune  of  comfort,  though 

themselves 
Most  ignorant  of  the  special  words  of 

such, 
And  quiet  so  and  fortify  his  brain, 
And  give  it  time  and  strength  for  feel- 
ing out 
To  reach  the  availing  sense  beyond 

that  sound  — 
"Went    murmuring    to    him    what,   if 

written  here, 
Would  seem  not  much,  yet  fetched 

him  better  help 
Than    peradventure  if    it    had    been 

more. 

I've  known  the  pregnant  thinkers  of 

our  time, 
And  stood  by  breathless,  hanging  on 

their  lips. 
When  some   chromatic  sequence    of 

fine  thought 
In  learned  modulation  phrased  itself 
To    an    iinconjectured    harmony    of 

truth ; 
And  yet  I've  been  more  moved,  more 

raised,  I  say, 
By  a  simple  word  ...  a  broken,  easy 

thing 
A   three-years  infant  might  at  need 

repeat, 
A  look,  a  sigh,  a  touch  upon  the  palm. 
Which  meant  less  than  "  I  love  you," 

than  by  all 
The  full-voiced  rhetoric  of  those  mas- 
ter-mouths. 

"  Ah,  dear  Aurora,"  he  began  at  last. 
His  pale  lips  fumbling  for  a  sort  of 

smile, 
"  Your  i^rinter's  devils  have  not  spoilt 

your  heart: 
That's  well.    And  who  knows,   but 

long  years  ago 
When  you  and  I  talked,  you  were 

somewhat  right 
In  being  so  peevish  with  me  ?    You, 

at  least. 
Have  ruined   no  one    through    your 

dreams.    Instead, 
You've  helped  the  facile  youth  to  live 

youth's  day 
With  innocent  distraction,  still,  per- 
haps 


Suggestive  of  things  better  than  your 

rhymes. 
The     little    shepherd-maiden,    eight 

years  old, 
I've  seen  upon  the  mountains  of  Vau- 

cluse. 
Asleep  i'  the  sun,  her  head  upon  her 

knees. 
The  flocks  all  scattered,  is  more  lau- 
dable 
Than  any  sheep-dog  trained  imper- 
fectly. 
Who  bites  the  kids  through  too  much 

zeal." 

"  I  look 
As  if  I  had  slept,  then  ?  " 

He  was  toixched  at  once 
By  something  in  my  face.    Indeed, 

'twas  sure 
That  he  and  I,  despite  a  year  or  two 
Of  younger  life  on   my  side,  and  on 

his 
The  heaping  of  the  years'  work  on 

the  days, 
The    three-hour    speeches    from    the 

member's  seat. 
The  hot  committees  in  and  out    of 

doors, 
The  pamphlets,  "Arguments,"  "Col- 
lective Views," 
Tossed    out    as    straw    before    sick 

houses,  just 
To  show  one's  sick,  and  so  be  trod  to 

dirt. 
And     no    more    use,  —  through    this 

world's  underground 
The      burrowing,      groping      effort. 

whence  the  arm 
And  heart  come  torn, —  'twas    sure 

that  he  and  I 
Were,  after  all,  unequally  fatigued; 
That  he,  in  his  developed  manhood, 

stood 
A  little    sunburnt    by  the    glare  of 

life, 
While  I  ...  it  seemed  no  sun  had 

shone  on  me, 
So  many  seasons  I  had  missed  my 

springs. 
My  cheeks  had  pined  and  perished 

from  their  orbs. 
And  all  the  youth-blood  in  them  had 

grown  white 
As  dew  on  autumn  cyclamens:  alone 
My  eyes  and  forehead  answered  for 

my  face. 

He  said,  "  Aurora,  you  are  changed 
—  are  ill!" 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


"  Not  so,  luy  cousin,  —  only  not 
asleep," 

I  answered,  smiling  gently.  "  Let  it 
be. 

You  scarcely  found  the  poet  of  Vau- 
cluse 

As  drowsy  as  the  shepherds.  What 
is  art 

But  life  upon  the  larger  scale,  the 
higher, 

"When,  graduating  up  in  a  spiral  line 

Of  still  expanding  and  ascending 
gyres, 

It  pushes  toward  the  intense  signifi- 
cance 

Of  all  things,  hungry  for  the  Infinite? 

Art's  life;  and  where  we  live,  we  suf- 
fer and  toil." 

He  seemed  to  sift  me  with  his  painful 
eyes. 

"You  take  it  gravely,  cousin:  you 
refuse 

Your  dreamland's  right  of  common, 
and  green  rest. 

You  break  the  mythic  turf  where 
danced  the  ftymphs. 

With  crooked  ploughs  of  actual  life, 
let  in 

The  axes  to  the  legendary  woods. 

To  pay  the  poll-tax.  You  are  fallen 
indeed 

On  evil  days,  you  poets,  if  your- 
selves 

Can  praise  that  art  of  yours  no  other- 
wise; 

And  if  you  cannot  .  .  .  better  take 
a  trade 

And  be  of  use:  'twere  cheaper  for 
your  youth." 

"  Of  use  !  "  I  softly  echoed,  "  there's 

the  point 
We  sweep  about  forever  in  argument, 
Like  swallows  which  the  exasperate, 

dying  year 
Sets  spinning  in  black  circles,  round 

and  round. 
Preparing  for  far  flights  o'er  unknown 

seas. 
And  we  —  where  tend  we  ?  " 

"Where?"  he  said,  and  sighed. 
"  The  whole  creation,  from  the  hour 

we  are  born, 
Perplexes  us  with  questions.     Not  a 

stone 
But  cries  behind  us,  every  weary  step, 
'  Where,  where  ? '   I  leave  stones  to 

reply  to  stones. 


Enough  for  me  and   for  my  Heshly 

heart 
To  hearken  the  invocations    of    my 

kind, 
When  men  catch  liold  upon  my  shud- 
dering nerves. 
And  shriek, '  What  help?  what  hope  ? 

what  bread  i'  the  house  ? 
What  fire  1'  the  frost  ? '    There  must 

be  some  response, 
Though  mine  fail  iitterly.   This  social 

Sphinx 
Who  sits  between  the  sepulchres  and 

stews. 
Makes  mock  and   mow  against   the 

crystal  heavens, 
And  bullies  God,  —  exacts  a  word  at 

least 
From  each  man  standing  on  the  side 

of  God, 
However  paying  a    sphinx-price    for 

it. 
We  pay  it  also,  if  we  hold  our  peace, 
In  pangs    and  pity.    Let  me    speak 

and  die. 
Alas  !  you'll  say  I  speak  and  kill  in- 
stead." 

I  pressed  in  there.  "The  best  men, 
doing  their  best. 

Know  peradventure  least  of  what 
they  do; 

Men  usefuUest  i'  the  world  are  simply 
used; 

The  nail  tlaat  holds  the  wood  must 
pierce  it  first; 

And  he  alone  who  wields  the  ham- 
mer sees 

The  work  advanced  by  the  earliest 
blow.    Take  heart." 

"  Ah,  if  I  could  have  taken  yours  !  " 

he  said  — 
"  But  that's  past  now."     Then  rising, 

—  "  I  will  take 
At  least  your  kindness  and   encour- 
agement. 
I  thank  you.    Dear,  be  happy.    Sing 

your  songs, 
If  that's  your  way;    but  sometimes 

slumber  too. 
Nor  tire  too  much  with  following,  out 

of  breath, 
The  rhymes  upon  your  mountains  of 

Delight. 
Reflect,  if  art  be  in  truth  the  higher 

life. 
You  need  the  lower  life  to  stand  upon 
In  order  to  reach  up  unto  that  higher; 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


And  none  can  stand  a-tiptoe  in   the 

place 
He  cannot  stand  in  with  two  stable 

feet. 
Remember  then  !  for  art's  sake  hold 
,    your  life. 

We  parted  so.  I  held  him  in  respect. 
1  comprehended  what  he  was  in  heart 
And  sacrificial  gteatness.      Ay,   but 

he 
Supposed  me  a  thing  too  small    to 

deign  to  know. 
He  blew  me,  plainly,  from  the  cruci- 
ble 
As  some  intruding,  interrupting  fly, 
Not  worth  the  pains  of  his  analysis 
Absorbed  on  nobler  subjects.     Hurt 

a  fly! 
He  would    not    for    the  world:  he  s 

pitiful 
To  flies  even.     "  Sing,"  says  he,  "  and 

tease  me  still. 
If    that's    your    way,    poor    insect." 

That's  your  way  ! 


FIFTH  BOOK. 

Aurora  Leigh,  be  humble.  Shall  I 
hope 

To  speak  my  poems  in  mysterious 
tune 

With  man  and  nature  ?  with  the  lava- 
lymph 

That  trickles  from  successive  galaxies 

Still  drop  by  drop  adown  the  finger 
of  God 

In  still  new  worlds?  with  summer- 
days  in  this 

That  scarce  dare  breathe,  they  are  so 
beautiful  ? 

With  spring's  delicious  trouble  in  the 
ground, 

Tormented  by  the  quickened  blood  of 
roots. 

And  softly  pricked  by  golden  crocus- 
sheaves 

In  token  of  the  harvest-time  of  flow- 
ers ? 

With  winters  and  with  autumns,  and 
beyond 

With  the  human  heart's  large  sea- 
sons, when  it  hopes 

And  fears,  joys,  grieves,  and  loves  ? 
with  all  that  strain 


Of  sexual  passion,  which  devours  the 

flesh 
In  a  sacrament  of  souls  ?  with  moth- 
er's breasts, 
Which,  round   the    new-made    crea- 
tures hanging  there. 
Throb  luminous  and  harmonious  like 

pure  sjjheres  ? 
With  multitudinous  life,  and,  finally, 
With  the  great  escapings  of  ecstatic 

souls. 
Who,  in  a  rush  of  too  long  prisoned 

flame. 
Their    radiant    faces    upward,    burn 

away 
This  dark  of  the  bodj ,  issuing  on  a 

world 
Beyond  our  mortal  ?    Can  i  speak  my 

verse 
So  plainly  in  tune  to  these  things  and 

the  rest, 
That  men  shall  feel  it  catch  them  on 

the  quick. 
As    having    the  same  warrant    over 

them 
To  hold  and  move  them,  if  they  will 

or  no. 
Alike  imperious  as  the  primal  rhythm 
Of  that  theurgic  nature  ?    I  must  fail, 
Who  fail  at  the  beginning  to  hold  and 

move 
One  man,  and  he  my  cousin,  and  he 

my  friend, 
And  he  born  tender,  made  intelligent. 
Inclined    to    ponder  the    precipitous 

sides 
Of  difficult  questions,  yet  obtuse  to 

me, 
Of    me,    incurious !     likes    me    very 

well. 
And  wishes  me  a  paradise  of  good,  — 
Good  looks,  good  means,   and  good 

digestion,  —  ay. 
But  otherwise  evades  me,  puts  me  ofE 
With  kindness,  with  a  tolerant  gen- 
tleness, — 
Too  light  a  book  for  a  grave  man's 

reading !    Go, 
Aurora  Leigh:  be  humble. 

There  it  is, 
We  women  are  too  apt  to  look  to  one. 
Which  proves  a  certain  impotence  in 

art. 
We  strain  our  natures  at  doing  some- 
thing great. 
Far  less  because  it's  something  great 

to  do 
Than    haply  that  we,   so,  commend 

ourselves 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


As  being  not  small,  and  more  appre- 
ciable 

To  some  one  friend.  We  must  bave 
mediators 

Betwixt  our  highest  conscience  and 
the  judge ; 

Some  sweet  saint's  blood  must  quick- 
en in  our  palms, 

Or  all  the  life  in  heaven  seems  slow 
and  cold; 

Good  only  being  perceived  as  the  end 
of  good, 

And  God  alone  pleased, — that's  too 
poor,  we  think. 

And  not  enough  for  us  by  any  means. 

Ay,  Romney,  I  remember,  told  me 
once 

We  miss  the  abstract  when  we  com- 
prehend; 

We  miss  it  most  when  we  aspire,  — 
and  fail. 

Yet,  so,  I  will  not.  This  vile  wo- 
man's way 

Of  trailing  garments  shall  not  trip 
me  up: 

I'll  have  no  traffic  with  the  personal 
thought 

In  art's  pure  temple.  Must  I  work 
in  vain. 

Without  the  approbation  of  a  man  ? 

It  cannot  be;  it  shall  not.  Fame  it- 
self, 

That  approbation  of  the  general 
race. 

Presents  a  poor  end,  (though  the  ar- 
row speed 

Shot  straight  with  vigorous  finger  to 
the  white,) 

And  the  highest  fame  was  never 
reached  except 

By  what  was  aimed  above  it.  Art  for 
art. 

And  good  for  God  himself,  the  essen- 
tial Good ! 

We'll  keep  our  aims  sublime,  our 
eyes  erect, 

Although  our  woman-hands  should 
shake  and  fail; 

And  if  we  fail  .  .  .  But  must  we  ?  — 

Shall  I  fail  ? 

The  Greeks  said  grandly  in  their 
tragic  phrase, 

"  Let  no  one  be  called  happy  till  his 
death." 

To  which  I  add.  Let  no  one  till  his 
death 

Be  called  unhappy.  Measure  not  the 
work 


Until  the  da^^'s  out  and  the  labor 
done ; 

Then  bring  your  gauges.  If  the  day's 
work's  scant, 

Why,  call  it  scant;  affect  no  compro- 
mise; 

And,  in  that  we've  nobly  striven  at 
least. 

Deal  with  us  nobly,  women  though 
we  be. 

And  honor  us  with  truth,  if  not  with 
praise. 

My  ballads  prospered;  but  the  bal- 
lad's race 

Is  rapid  for  a  poet  who  bears  weights 

Of  thought  and  golden  image.  He 
can  stand 

Like  Atlas,  in  the  sonnet,  and  sup- 
port 

His  own  heavei:8  pregnant  with  dy- 
nastic stars; 

But  then  he  must  stand  still,  nor  take 
a  step. 

In  that  descriptive  poem  called  "  The 
Hills," 

The  prospects  were  too  far  and  indis- 
tinct. 

'Tis  true  my  critics  said,  "  A  fine 
view,  that !  " 

The  public  scarcely  cared  to  climb  my 
book 

For  even  the  finest,  and  the  public's 
right: 

A  tree's  mere  firewood,  unless  hu- 
manized; 

Which  well  the  Greeks  knew  when 
they  stirred  its  bark 

With  close-pressed  bosoms  of  subsid- 
ing nymphs, 

And  made  the  forest-rivers  garru- 
lous 

With  babble  of  gods.  For  us,  we  are 
called  to  mark 

A  still  more  intimate  humanity 

In  this  inferior  nature,  or  our- 
selves 

Must  fall  like  dead  leaves  trodden 
underfoot 

By  veritable  artists.  Earth  (shut 
up 

By  Adam,  like  a  fakir  in  a  box 

Left  too  long  buried)  remained  stiff 
and  dry, 

A  mere  dumb  corpse,  till  Christ  the 
Lord  came  down. 

Unlocked  the  doors,  forced  open  the 
blank  eyes, 


82 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And    used     his     kiygly    chrism    to 

straighten  out 
The  leathery  tongue  turned  hack  into 

the  throat; 
Since  when,    she    lives,  remembers, 

palpitates 
In    every    limb,     aspires     in    every 

breath, 
Embraces  infinite  relations.     Now 
"We  want  no  half-gods,  Panomphiean 

Joves, 
Fauns,  Naiads,  Tritons,  Oreads,  and 

the  rest. 
To   take    possession    of   a   senseless 

world 
To  unnatural  vampire-uses.     See  the 

earth. 
The    body  of    our    body,   the    green 

earth, 
"indubitably  human  like  this  flesh 
And  these  articulated  veins  through 

which 
Our  heart  drives  blood  !    There's  not 

a  flower  of  spring 
That  dies  ere  June,  but  vaunts  itself 

allied 
By  issue  and  symbol,  by  significance 
And  correspondence,  to  that  spirit- 
world 
Outside  the  limits  of  our  space  and 

time. 
Whereto  we  are  bound.     Let  poets 

give  it  voice 
With    human    meanings,    else    they 

miss  the  thought. 
And    henceforth    step    down    lower, 

stand  confessed 
Instructed  poorly  for  interpreters, 
Thrown  out  by  an  easy  cowslip  in  the 

text. 

Even  so  my  pastoral  failed:  it  was  a 
book 

Of  surface-pictures,  pretty,  cold,  and 
false 

With  literal  transcript,  —  the  worse 
done,  I  think, 

For  being  not  ill  done :  let  me  set  my 
mark 

Against  such  doings,  and  do  other- 
wise. 

This  strikes  me.  —  If  the  public  whom 
we  know 

Could  catch  me  at  such  admissions,  I 
should  pass 

For  being  right  modest.  Yet  how 
proud  we  are 

In  daring  to  look  down  upon  our- 
selves ! 


The  critics  say  that  epics  have  died 
out 

With  Agamemnon  and  the  goat- 
nursed  gods: 

I'll  not  believe  it.   I  could  never  deem, 

As  Payne  Knight  did,  (the  mythic 
mountaineer 

Who  travelled  higher  than  he  was 
born  to  live. 

And  showed  sometimes  the  goitre  in 
his  throat 

Discoursing  of  an  image  seen  through 

fog,) 

That  Homer's  heroes  measured 
twelve  feet  high. 

They  were  but  men:  his  Helen's 
hair  turned  gray 

Like  any  plain  Miss  Smith's  who 
wears  a  front ; 

And  Hector's  infant  whimpered  at  a 
plume 

As  yours  last  Friday  at  a  turkey- 
cock. 

All  actual  heroes  are  essential  men. 

And  all  men  possible  heroes:  every 
age, 

Heroic  in  proportions,  double-faced, 

Looks  backward  and  before,  expects 
a  morn 

And  claims  an  epos. 

Ay;  but  every  age 

Appears  to  souls  who  live  in't  (ask 
Carlyle) 

Most  unheroic.  Ours,  for  instance, 
ours  — 

The  thinkers  scout  it,  and  the  poets 
aboiind 

Who  scorn  to  touch  it  with  a  finger- 
tip— 

A  pewter  age,  mixed  metal,  silver- 
washed  — 

An  age  of  scum,  spooned  off  the  richer 
past,  — 

An  age  of  patches  for  old  gaberdines, 

An  age  of  mere  transition,  meaning 
nought 

Except  that  what  succeeds  must 
shame  it  quite 

If  God  please.  That's  wrong  think- 
ing, to  my  mind. 

And  wrong  thoughts  make  poor  po- 
ems. 

Every  age. 

Through  being  beheld  too  close,  is  ill 
discerned 

By  those  who  have  not  lived  past  it. 
We'll  suppose 

Mount  Athos  carved,  as  Alexander 
schemed, 


i 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


To  some  colossal  statue  of  a  man. 

The  peasants,  gathering  brushwood 
in  his  ear, 

Had  guessed  as  little  as  the  browsing 
goats 

Of  form  or  feature  of  humanitj' 

Up  there,  —  in  fact,  had  travelled  five 
miles  off 

Or  ere  the  giant  image  broke  on  them, 

Full  human  profile,   nose    and    chin 
distinct. 

Mouth  muttering  rhythms  of  silence 
up  the  sky, 
\  And  feci  at  evening  with  the  blood  of 

sons; 

Grand  torso,  —  hand  tliat  flung  per- 
petually 

The  largesse  of  a  silver  river  down 

To    all    the    country    pastures.     'Tis 
even  thus 

With  times  we  live    in, — evermore 
too  great 

To  be  apprehended  near. 

But  poets  should 

Exert  a  double  vision;  should  have 
eyes 

To  see'  near  things    as    comprehen- 
sively 

As  if    afar  they  took  their  point  of 
sight. 

And  distant  things  as  intimately  deep 

As  if    they  touched    tliem.     Let    us 
strive  for  this. 

I  do  distrust  the  poet  who  discerns 

No  character  or  glory  in  his  times, 

And  trundles  back  his  soul  five  hun- 
dred years, 

Past  moat  and    drawbridge,   into    a 
castle-court. 

To  sing  —  oh,  not  of  lizard  or  of  toad 

Alive  i'  the  ditch  there,  —  'twere  ex- 
cusable. 

But  of  some  black  chief,  half  knight, 
half  sheep-lifter. 

Some  beauteous  dame,   half  chattel 
and  half  queen, 
I  As  dead  as  must  he,  for  the  greater 

part. 

The  poems  made   on  their  chivalric 
bones ; 

And  that's  no  wonder:  death  inherits 
death. 
■ ) 

Nay,  if  there's  room  for  poets  in  this 
world 

A  little  overgrown,  (I  think  there  is) 

Their  sole  work  is  to  represent  the  age, 

Their  age,  not  Charlemagne's,— this 
live,  throbbing  age, 


That  brawls,  cheats,  maddens,  calcu- 
lates, asi^ires, 

And  spends  more  passion,  more  hero- 
ic heat, 

Betwixt  the  mirrors  of  its  drawing- 
rooms. 

Than    Roland    with    his    knights    at 
Roncesvalles. 

To  flinch  from  modern  varnish,  coat, 
or  flounce. 

Cry  out  for  togas  and  the  picturesque, 

Is  fatal,  —  foolish  too.    King  Arthur's 
self 

Was  commonplace  to  Lady  Guinevere ; 

And  Camelot  to  minstrels  seemed  as 
flat 

As  Fleet  Street  to  our  poets. 

Never  flinch. 

But  still,  unscrupvilously  epic,  catch 

Upon  the  burning  lava  of  a  song 

The    full-veined,    heaving,     double- 
breasted  age. 

That,  when  the  next  shall  come,  the 
.  men  of  that 

May  touch  the  impress  with  reverent 
hand,  and  say, 

"  Behold,    behold,   the    paps    we   all 
have  sucked  ! 

This  bosom  seems  to  beat  still,  or  at 
least 

It  sets  ours  beating:  this  is  living  art, 

Which  thus  presents  and  thus  records 
true  life." 

What  form  is  best  for  poems  ?    Let 

me  think 
Of    forms    less,    and    the    external 

Trust  the  spirit. 
As  sovran  natiire  does,  to  make  the 

form; 
For    otherwise    we     only     imprison 

spirit 
And  not  embody.     Inward  evermore 
To  outward,  —  so  in  life,  and  so  in  art. 
Which  still  is  life. 

Five  acts  to  make  a  play. 
And  why  not  fifteen  ?  why  not  ten  ? 

or  seven  ? 
What  matter  for  the  number  of  the 

leaves, 
Supposing  the  tree  lives  and  grows  ? 

exact 
The  literal  unities  of  time  and  place. 
When  'tis  the  essence  of  passion  to 

ignore 
Both  time  and  place  ?   Absurd.    Keep 

up  the  fire. 
And  leave    the    generous  flames    to 

shape  themselves. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


'Ti8  true  the  stage  requires  obsequi- 
ousness 
To  this  or  that  convention;   "exit" 

here 
And   "enter"   there;   the   points  for 

clapping  fixed, 
Like  Jacob's  white-jieeled  rods  before 

the  rams; 
And    all    the    close-curled    imagery 

clipped 
In  manner  of  their  fleece  at  shearing- 
time. 
Forget  to  prick   tlie  galleries  to  the 

heart 
Precisely  at  the  fourth  act,  culminate 
Our  five  i>yramidal  acts  with  one  act 

more, 
We're    lost    so:    Shakspeare's    ghost 

could  scarcely  plead 
Against  our  just  damnation.     Stand 

aside; 
We'll    muse,   for    comfort,  that  last 

century, 
On   this  same  tragic  stage  on  which 

we  have  failed, 
A  wigless  Hamlet  v^^ould  have  failed 

the  same. 

And  whosoever  writes  good  poetry 
Looks  just  to  art.    He  does  not  write 

for  you 
Or  me,  for  Loudon  or  for  Edinburgh; 
He  will  not    suffer  the    best    critic 

known 
To    step    into    his    sunshine  of    free 

thought 
And    self-absorbed    conception,    and 

exact 
An  inch-long  swerving  of  the   holy 

lines. 
If  virtue  done  for  ijopularity 
Defiles  like  vice,  can  art,  for  praise  or 

hire, 
Still  keep  its  splendor,  and  remain 

pure  art  ? 
Eschew    such    serfdom.     What    the 

poet  writes. 
He  writes.    Mankind  accepts  it  if  it 

suits. 
And  that's  success:  if  not,  the  poem's 

passed 
From  hand   to   hand,   and  yet  from 

hand  to  hand. 
Until  the  unborn  snatch  it,  crying  out 
In  pity  on  their  father's  being  so  dull; 
And  that's  success  too. 

I  will  write  no  plays. 
Because  the  drama,  less  sublime  in 

this. 


Makes  lower  appeals;  submits  more 
menially;  , 

Adopts  the  standard  of  the  public 
taste 

To  chalk  its  height  on ;  wears  a  dog- 
chain  round 

Its  regal  neck,  and  learns  to  carry 
and  fetch 

The  fashions  of  the  day  to  please  the 
day; 

Fawns  close  on  pit  and  boxes,  who 
clap  hands, 

Commending  chiefly  its  docility 

And  humor  in  stage-tricks;  or  else, 
indeed. 

Gets  hissed  at,  howled  at,  stamped  at 
like  a  dog. 

Or  worse,  we'll  say.  For  dogs,  un- 
justly kicked. 

Yell,  bite  at  need;  but  if  your  drama- 
tist 

(Being  wronged  by  some  five  hundred 
nobodies, 

Because  their  grosser  brains  most 
naturally 

Misjudge  the  fineness  of  his  subtle 
wit) 

Shows  teeth  an  almond's  breath,  pro- 
tests the  length 

Of  a  modest  phrase,  "  My  gentle 
countrymen, 

There's  something  in  it  haply  of  your 
fault," 

Why  then,  besides  five  hundred  no- 
bodies, 

He'll  have  five  thousand  and  five 
thousand  more 

Against  him,  —  the  whole  public,  all 
the  hoofs 

Of  King  Saul's  father's  asses,  in  full 
drove. 

And  obviously  deserve  it.  He  ap- 
pealed 

To  these,  and  why  say  more  if  they 
condemn. 

Than  if  they  praise  him  ?  Weep,  my 
iEschylus, 

But  low  and  far,  upon  Sicilian  shores  ! 

For  since  'twas  Athens  (so  I  read  the 
myth) 

Who  gave  commission  to  that  fatal 
weight 

The  tortoise,  cold  and  hard,  to  drop 
on  thee 

And  crush  thee,  better  cover  thy  bald 
head. 

She'll  hear  the  softest  hum  of  Hyblan 
bee 

Before  thy  loudest  protestation. 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


85 


Then 

The  risk's  still  worse  upon  the  mod- 
ern stage : 

I  could  not,  for  so  little,  accept  suc- 
cess; 

Nor  would  I  risk  so  much,  in   ease 
and  calm, 

For  manifester  gains:  let  those  who 
prize 

Pursue  them:  I  stand  off.     And  yet 
forbid 
\       That  any  irreverent  fancy  or  conceit 

Should  litter  in  the  drama's  throne- 
room  where 

The  rulers  of  our  art,  in  whose  full 
veins 

Dynastic     glories     mingle,     sit     in 
strength 

And  do  their  kingly  work,  conceive, 
command. 

And  from  the   imagination's  crucial 
heat 

Catch   up  their  men  and  women  all 
aflame 

For  action,  all  alive,  and  forced   to 
prove 

Their  life  by  living  out  heart,  brain, 
and  nerve, 

Until  mankind  makes  witness, "  These 
be  men 

As  we  are,"  and  vouchsafes  the  greet- 
ing due 

To  Imogen  and  Juliet,  —  sweetest  kin 

On  art's  side. 

'Tis  that,  honoring  to  its  worth 

The  drama,  I  would  fear  to  keep  it 
down 

To  the  level  of  the  footlights.    Dies 
no  more 

The  sacrificial  goat,  for  Bacchus  slain. 

His    filmed    eyes    fluttered    by    the 
whirling  Avhite 

Of  choral  vestures,  troubled  in  his 
blood, 

While  tragic  voices  that  clanged  keen 
as  swords, 

Leapt  high  together  with  the  altar- 
flame. 

And  made  the  blue   air  wink.    The 
waxen  mask, 

Which  set  the  grand,  still   front  of 
Themis'  son 

Upon  the  puckered  visage  of  a  player; 

The  buskin,  which  he  rose  upon  and 
moved. 

As  some  tall  ship,  first  conscious  of 
the  wind. 

Sweeps  slowly  past    the    piers;    the 
mouthpiece,  where 


The  mere  man's  voice,  with  all  its 

breaths  and  breaks. 
Went  sheathed  in  brass,  and  clashed 

on  even  heights 
Its  phrased  thunders,  —  these  things 

are  no  more. 
Which  once  were.    And  concluding, 

which  is  clear, 
The    growing    drama    has  outgrown 

such  toys 
Of  simulated  stature,  face,  and  sjieech, 
It  also  peradventure  may  outgrow 
The  simulation  of  the  painted  scene, 
Boards,   actors,   prompters,  gaslight, 

and  costume. 
And  take  for  a  worthier  stage  the 

soul  itself, 
Its    shifting     fancies     and    celestial 

lights. 
With  all  its  grand  orchestral  silences 
To  keep  the  pauses  of  its  rhythmic 

sounds. 

Alas !    I    still    see    something  to  be 

done, 
And  what  I  do  falls  short  of  what  I 

see. 
Though    I   waste    myself    on    doing. 

Long  green  days. 
Worn  bare  of    grass  and    sunshine; 

long  calm  nights, 
From  which  the  silken  sleeps  were 

fretted  out,  — 
Be  witness  for  me,  with  no  amateur's 
Irreverent  haste  and  busy  idleness 
I  set    myself    to    art !    What  then  ? 

what's  done  ? 
What's  done,  at  last  ? 

Behold,  at  last,  a  book. 
If  life-blood's  necessary,  which  it  is,  — 
(By  that  blue  vein  a-throb  on  Ma- 
homet's brow, 
Each  prophet-poet's  book  must  show 

man's  blood  !) 
If    life-blood's    fertilizing,    I    wrung 

mine 
On  every  leaf  of  this,  unless  the  drops 
Slid  heavily  on  one  side,  and  left  it 

dry. 
That  chances   often.     Many  a  fervid 

man 
Writes    books    as    cold    and    flat    as 

graveyard  stones 
From  which  the  lichen's  scraped;  and 

if  St.  Preux 
Had  written  his  own  letters,  as  he 

might. 
We  had  never  wept  to  think  of  the 

little  mole 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


'Neath  Julie's  drooping  eyelid.    Pas- 
sion is 
But  something  suffered,  after  all. 

While  art 
Sets  action  on  the  top  of  suffering, 
The   artist's  part  is  both  to  be  and 

do, 
Transfixing    with  a    special    central 

power 
The  flat  experience  of  the  common 

man. 
And  turning    outward,  with  a  sud- 
den wrench, 
Half  agony,  half  ecstasy,  the  thing 
He  feels  the  inmost,  —  never  felt  the 

less 
Because  he  sings  it.    Does   a  torch 

less  burn 
For  burning  next  reflectors  of  blue 

steel, 
That  he  should  be  the  colder  for  his 

place 
'Twixt  two  incessant  fires,  —  his  per- 
sonal life's. 
And  that  intense    refraction    which 

burns  back 
Perpetually    against    him    from  ■  the 

round 
Of    crystal  conscience   he   was  born 

into. 
If  artist-born?    Oh,  sorrowful,  great 

gift 
Conferred  on  poets,  of  a  twofold  life. 
When  one  life  has  been  found  enough 

for  pain  ! 
We,  staggering  'neath  our  burden  as 

mere  men, 
Being  called  to  stand  up  straight  as 

demigods. 
Support  the    intolerable    strain    and 

stress 
Of    the  universal,   and  send  clearly 

up 
With  voices   broken   by   the   human 

sob, 
Our  poems  to  find  rhymes  among  the 

stars  ! 
But  soft,  —  a  "poet"  is  a  word  soon 

said, 
A  book's  a  thing  soon  written.    Nay, 

indeed, 
The  more  the  poet  shall  be  questiona- 
ble, 
The  more  unquestionably  comes  his 

book. 
And  this  of  mine  —  well,  granting  to 

myself 
Some  passion  in  it,  furrowing  up  the 

flats, 


Mere  passion  will  not  prove  a  volume 

worth 
Its    gall    and    rags    even.      Bubbles 

round  a  keel 
Mean  nought,  excepting  that  the  ves- 
sel moves. 
There's  more  than    passion  goes   to 

make  a  man 
Or  book,  which  is  a  man  too. 

I  am  sad. 
I   wonder    if    Pygmalion    had    these 

doubts. 
And,  feeling    the    hard  marble  first 

relent, 
Grow  supple   to  the  straining  of  his 

arms, 
And    tingle  through  its  cold   to   his 

burning  lip, 
Supposed    his    senses    mocked,    sup- 
posed the  toil 
Of    stretching   past  the    known   and 

seen  to  reach 
The  archetypal  beauty  out  of  sight, 
Had  made  his  heart  beat  fast  enough 

for  two, 
And   with   his   own    life    dazed    and 

blinded  him  ! 
Not  so.    Pygmalion  loved ;  and  whoso 

loves 
Believes  the  impossible. 

But  I  am  sad  : 
I    cannot    thoroughly    love    a    work 

of  mine, 
Since     none    seems    worthy    of    my 

thought  and  hope 
More    highly  mated.     He    has    shot 

them  down, 
Mj'  Phoebus  Apollo,  soul  within   my 

soul, 
Who  judges  by  the  attempted  what's 

attained. 
And  with  the  silver  arrow  from  his 

height 
Has  struck  down  all  my  works  before 

my  face, 
While  I  said  nothing.    Is  there  aught 

to  say  ? 
I  called   the  artist  but  a  greatened 

man. 
He  may  be  childless  also,  like  a  man. 

I  labored  on  alone.    Tlie  wind   and 

dust 
And  sun  of  the  world  beat  blistering 

in  my  face; 
And  hope,  now  for  me,  now  against 

me,  dragged 
My  spirits    onward,   as    some  fallen 

balloon, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


^Yhich,  whether  caught  by  blossom- 
ing tree  or  bare, 
Is  torn  alike.    I  sometimes  touched 

my  aim, 
Or  seemed,  and  generous  souls  cried 

out,  "  Be  strong, 
Take  courage  ;    now  you're    on   our 

level  —  now  ! 
The    next  step  saves  you."      I  was 

flushed  with  praise  ; 
But,  pausing  just  a  moment  to  draw 

breath, 
I  could  not  choose  but   murmur  to 

myself, 
"  Is  this  all  ?  all  that's  done  ?  and  all 

that's  gained  ? 
If  this,  then,  be  success,  'tis  dismaller 
Than  any  failure." 

O  my  God,  my  God, 
O  supreme  Artist,  who,  as  sole  return 
For  all    the    cosmic  wonder   of    thy 

work, 
Demandest  of  us  just  a  word  ...  a 

name, 
"My  Father!  "  thou  hast  knowledge, 

only  thou, 
How  dreary   'tis   for  women    to    sit 

still 
On  winter  nights,  by  solitary  fires, 
And  hear  the  nations  praising  them 

far  off, 
Too  far  !  ay,  praising  our  quick  sense 

of  love. 
Our  very  heart  of  passionate  woman- 
hood, 
Which  could  not  beat  so  in  the  verse, 

without 
Being  present  also  in   the  iinkissed 

lips, 
And    eyes   undried,   because    there's 

none  to  ask 
The  reason  they  grew  moist. 

To  sit  alone. 
And  think  for  comfort,  how  that  very 

night 
Affianced  lovers,  leaning  face  to  face, 
"With  sweet   half-listenings  for  each 

other's  breath, 
A.re  reading  haply  from  a  page  of  ours, 
To  pause  with  a  thrill  (as   if    their 

cheeks  had  touched) 
When  such  a  stanza,  level  to  their 

mood. 
Seems  floating  their  own  thought  out 

—  "So  I  feel 
For  thee,"  — "And  I,  for  thee:  this 

poet  knows 
What    everlasting    love    is!"  —  how 

that  night 


Some  father,  issuing  from  the  misty 

roads 
Upon  the  luminous   round  of    lamp 

and  hearth. 
And  happy  children,   having  caught 

up  first 
The  youngest  there,  until   it  shrink 

and  shriek 
To  feel  the  cold  chin  prick  its  dim- 
ples through 
With  winter  from  the  hills,  may  throw 

i'  the  lap 
Of  the  eldest  (who  has  learnt  to  drop 

her  lids 
To  hide  some  sweetness  newer  than 

last  year's) 
Our  book,  and  cry  ...    "  Ah,   you, 

you  care  for  rhymes  : 
So  here  be  rhymes  to  pore  on  under 

trees, 
When  April  comes  to  let  yon  I     I've 

been  told 
They  are  not  idle,  as  so  many  are, 
Butset  hearts  beating  pure,  as  well  as 

fast. 
'Tis  yours,  the  book  :  I'll  write  your 

name  in  it. 
That  so  you  may  not  lose,  however 

lost 
In  poet's  lore  and  charming  revery, 
The    thought    of     how    your    father 

thought  of  yov 
In  riding  from  the  town." 

To  have  our  books 
Appraised   by  love,   associated   with 

love. 
While  ive  sit  loveless  !  is  it  hard,  you 

think  ? 
At  least  'tis  mournful.    Fame,  indeed, 

'twas  said. 
Means  simply  love.    It  was   a  man 

said  that. 
And  then  there's  love  and  love  :  the 

love  of  all 
(To  risk  in  turn  a  woman's  paradox) 
Is   but  a  small   thing  to  the  love  of 

one. 
You  bid  a  hungry  child  be  satisfied 
With  a  heritage  of  many  cornfields  : 

nay, 
He  says  he's  hungry  ;  he  would  rather 

have 
That  little  barley-cake  yon  keep  from 

him 
While  reckoning  up  his  harvests.    So 

with  us  ; 
(Here,  Romney,  too,  we  fail  to  gener- 
alize !) 
We're  hungry. 


88 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Hungry  !    But  it's  pitiful 
To  wail   like  unweaned   babes,  and 

suck  our  thumbs, 
Because  we're  hungry.    Who  in  all 

this  world 
(Wherein  we  are  haply  set  to  pray  and 

fast, 
And  learn  what  good  is  by  its  oppo- 
site) 
Has  never  hungered  ?    Woe  to  him 

who  has  found 
The  meal  enough  !     If  Ugolino's  full. 
His  teeth  have  crunched  some  foul 

unnatural  thing; 
For  here  satiety  proves  penury 
More  utterly  irremediable.   And  since 
We  needs    must    hunger,   better,  for 

man's  love 
Than  God's   truth  !    better,  for  com- 
panions sweet 
Than  great  convictions  !     Let  us  bear 

our  weights. 
Preferring  dreary  hearths   to  desert 

souls. 
Well,  well !  they  say  we're  envious, 

we  who  rhyme ; 
But  I  —  because  I  am  a  woman,  per- 
haps. 
And  so  rhyme  ill— am  ill  at  envying. 
I  never  envied  Graham  his  breadth  of 

style, 
Which    gives    you,    with    a    random 

smutch  or  two, 
(Near-sighted      critics      analyze      to 

smutch) 
Such    delicate    perspectives    of    full 

life; 
Nor  Belmore,  for  the  unity  of  aim 
To  which  he  cuts  his  cedarn  poems, 

fine. 
As    sketchers    do  their  pencils;   nor 

Mark  Gage, 
For    that  caressing  color  and    tran- 
cing tone 
Whereby    you're    swept  away,    and 

melted  in 
The  sensual  element,  which,  with  a 

back  wave, 
Restores  you    to    the    level  of    pure 

souls, 
And  leaves  you  with  Plotinus.    None 

of  these. 
For  native  gifts  or  popular  applause, 
I've  envied;  but  for  this,  —  that  when 

by  chance 
Says  some  one,  ^  There  goes  Belmore, 

a  great  man  ! 
He  leaves  clean  work  behind  him, 

and  requires 


No  sweeper-up  of  the  chips,"  ...  a 

girl  I  know, 
Who  answers  nothing,  save  with  her 

brown  eyes. 
Smiles  unaware,  as  if  a  guardian  saint 
Smiled  in  her;  for  this,  too,  that  Gage 

comes  home, 
And  lays  his  last  book's  prodigal  re- 
view 
Upon  his  mother's  knee,  where,  years 

ago. 
He    laid    his  childish  spelling-book, 

and  learned 
To  chirp,  and  peck  the  letters  from 

her  mouth. 
As  young  birds  must.     "  Well  done," 

she  murmured  then: 
She  will  not  say  it  now  more  won- 

deringly. 
And  yet  the  last  "  Well  done  "  will 

touch  him  more. 
As  catching  up  to-day  and  yesterday 
In  a  perfect  chord  of  love.     And  so, 

Mark  Gage, 
I  envy  you  your  mother  —  and  you, 

Graham, 
Because  you  have  a  wife  who   loves 

you  so. 
She  half  forgets,  at  moments,  to  be 

proud 
Of  being  Graham's  wife,  until  a  friend 

observes, 
"The  boy  here  has  his  father's  mas- 
sive brow. 
Done  small  in  wax  ...  if  we  push 

back  the  curls." 

Who    loves    me?      Dearest    father, 

mother  sweet, — 
I  speak  the  names  out  sometimes  by 

myself, 
And  make  the  silence  shiver.    They 

sound  strange. 
As  Hindostanee  to  an  Ind-born  man 
Accustomed  many  years  to  Englisli 

speech; 
Or  lovely  poet-words  grown  obsolete. 
Which  will  not  leave  off  singing.    Up 

in  heaven 
I  have  my  father,  with  my  mother's 

face 
Beside  him  in  a  blotch  of  heavenly 

light; 
No  more  for  earth's  familiar,  house- 
hold use. 
No  more.    The  best  verse  written  by 

this  hand 
Can    never  reach  them   where  they 

sit,  to  seem 


i 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


89 


Well  done  to  them.  Death  quite  un- 
fellows  us, 

Sets  dreadful  odds  betwixt  the  live 
and  dead, 

And  makes  us  part,  as  those  at  Babel 
did 

Through  sudden  ignorance  of  a  com- 
mon tongue. 

A  living  Csesar  would  not  dare  to 
play 

At  bowls  with  such  as  my  dead  father 
is. 

And  yet  this  may  be  less  so  than  ap- 
pears. 

This  change  and  separation.  Spar- 
rows five 

For  just  two  farthings,  and  God  cares 
for  each. 

If  God  is  not  too  great  for  little 
cares. 

Is  any  creature,  because  gone  to  God  ? 

I've  seen  some  men,  veracious,  no- 
wise mad, 

"Who  have  thought  or  dreamed,  de- 
clared and  testified, 

They  heard  the  dead  a-ticking  like  a 
clock 

Which  strikes  the  hours  of  the  eter- 
nities, 

Beside  them,  with  their  natural  ears, 
and  known 

That  human  spirits  feel  the  human 
way. 

And  hate  the  unreasoning  awe  which 
waves  them  off 

From  possible  communion.  It  may 
be. 

At  least,  earth  separates  as  well  as 

heaven. 
For  instance,  I  have  not  seen  Rom- 

ney  Leigh 
Full  eighteen  months  .  .  .  add   six, 

you  get  two  years. 
They  say  he's  very  busy  with  good 

works. 
Has    parted    Leigh    Hall  into  alms- 
houses. 
He  made  one  day  an  almshouse  of 

his  heart, 
Which  ever  since  is  loose  upon  the 

latch 
For  those  who  pull   the    string.  —  I 

never  did. 

It  always  makes  me  sad  to  go  abroad. 
And  now  I'm  sadder  that  I  went  to- 
night 


Among  the  lights  and  talkers  at  Lord 
Howe's. 

His  wife  is  gracious,  with  her  gloss j' 
braids, 

And  even  voice,  and  gorgeous  eye- 
balls, calm 

As  her  other  jewels.  If  she's  some- 
what cold, 

Who  wonders,  when  her  blood  has 
stood  so  long 

In  the  ducal  reservoir  she  calls  her 
line 

By  no  means  arrogantly  ?  She's  not 
proud ; 

Not  prouder  than  the  swan  is  of  the 
lake 

He  has  always  swum  in :  'tis  her  ele- 
ment, 

And  so  she  takes  it  with  a  natural 
grace. 

Ignoring  tadpoles.  She  just  knows, 
perhaps, 

There  are  who  travel  without  out- 
riders. 

Which  isn't  her  fault.  Ah,  to  watch 
her  face. 

When  good  Lord  Howe  expounds  his 
theories 

Of  social  justice  and  equality  ! 

'Tis  curious  what  a  tender,  tolerant 
bend 

Her  neck  takes;  for  she  loves  him, 
likes  his  talk, 

"Such  clever  talk  —  that  dear  odd 
Algernon  !  " 

She  listens  on,  exactly  as  if  he  talked 

Some  Scandinavian  myth  of  Lemures, 

Too  pretty  to  dispute,  and  too  absurd. 

She's  gracious  to  me  as  her  husband's 

friend. 
And  would  be  gracious  were  I  not  a 

Leigh, 
Being  used  to  smile  just  so,  without 

her  eyes. 
On    Joseph    Strangways,   the    Leeds 

mesmerist, 
And  Delia  Dobbs,  the  lecturer  from 

"the  States" 
Upon     the      "Woman's     question." 

Then,  for  him  — 
I  like  him:  he's  my  friend.    And  all 

the  rooms 
Were    full    of    crinkling    silks    that 

swept  about 
The  fine  dust  of  most  subtle  courte- 
sies. 
What   then  ?    Why,  then  we    coma 

home  to  be  sad. 


90 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


How  lovely  one  I  love  not  looked  to- 
night ! 

She's  very  pretty,  Lady  Waldemar. 

Her  maid   must  use   both   hands  to 
twist  that  coil 

Of  tresses,  then  be  careful   lest  the 
rich 

Bronze  rounds  should  slip:  she  missed, 
though,  a  gray  hair, 

A  single  one,  — I  saw  it ;  otherwise 

The  woman  looked  immortal.     How 
tliey  told, 

Those  alabaster  shoulders  and  bare 
lir  easts. 

On  which  the  pearls,  drowned  out  of 
sight  in  milk. 

Were    lost,    excepting   for    the    ruby 
clasp. 

They  split  the  amaranth  velvet  bod- 
dice  down 

To  the  waist,  or  nearly,  with  the  auda- 
cious press 

Of  full-breathed  beauty.     If  the  heart 
within 

"Were  half  as  white  !  —  but,  if  it  were, 
perhaps 

The  breast  were  closer  covered,  and 
the  sight 

Less  aspectable  by  half,  too. 

I  heard 

The  young  man  with    the    German 
student's  look  — 

A  sharp  face,  like  a  knife  in  a  cleft 
stick, 

Which  shot  up  straight  against  the 
parting  line 

So  equally  dividing  the  long  hair  — 

Saj'  softly  to    his    neighbor    (thirty- 
five 

And  mediteval),  "  Look  that  way,  Sir 
Blaise. 

She's  Lady  Waldemar,  —  to   the  left 
—  in  red, — 

Whom    Romney    Leigh,    our    ablest 
man  just  now. 

Is  soon  about  to  marry." 

Then  replied 

Sir  Blaise  Delorme,  with  quiet,  priest- 
like voice, 

Too    used    to    syllable    damnations 
round 

To  make  a  natural  emphasis  worth 
while, 

"Is    Leigh    your    ablest  man?  —  the 
same,  I  think, 

Once   jilted    by    a   recreant    pretty 
maid 

Adopted  from  the  people?    Now,  iu 
change, 


He  seems  to  have  plucked  a  flower 

from  the  other  side 
Of  the  social  hedge." 

"  A  flower,  a  flower  !  "  exclaimed 
My  German  student,   his   own   eyes 

full  blown 
Bent  on  her.    He  was   twenty,  cer- 
tainly. 

Sir  Blaise  resumed  with  gentle  arro- 
gance, 
As  if  he  had  dropped  his  alms  into  a 

hat 
And  gained  the  right  to  counsel,  "  My 

young  friend, 
I  doubt  your  ablest  man's  ability 
To  get  the  least  good  or  help  meet  for 

him. 
For  Pagan  phalanstery  or  Christian 

home. 
From  such  a  flowery  creature." 

"Beautiful!" 
My  student  murmured,  rapt.     "  Mark 

how  she  stirs ! 
Just  waves  her  head,  as  if  a  flower 

indeed, 
Touched  far  off  by  the  vain  breath  of 

our  talk." 

At  which  that  bilious  Grimwald  (he 
who  writes 

For  the  Renovator),  who  had  seemed 
absorbed 

Upon  the  table-book  of  autograjihs, 

(I  dare  say  mentally  he  crunched  the 
bones 

Of  all  those  writers,   wishing   them 
alive 

To  feel  his  tooth  in  earnest),  turned 
short  round 

With  low  carnivorous    laugh,  —  "A 
flower,  of  course  ! 

She  neither  sews  nor  spins,  and  takes 
no  thought 

Of  her  garments  .  .  .  falling  off." 

The  student  flinched ; 

Sir  Blaise  the  same;  then  both,  draw- 
ing back  their  chairs 

As  if  they  spied  black-beetles  on  the 
floor. 

Pursued  their  talk,  without  a  word 
being  thrown 

To  the  critic. 

Good  Sir  Blaise's  brow  is  high, 

And    noticeably    narrow :    a    strong 
wind. 

You  fancy,   might  unroof    him  sud- 
denly, 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


91 


And  blow  that  great  top  attic  off  bis 
head 

So  piled  with  feudal  relics.  You  ad- 
mire 

His  nose  in  profile,  though  you  miss 
his  chin ; 

But,  though  you  miss  his  chin,  you 
seldom  miss 

His  ebon  cross  worn  innermostly, 
(carved 

For  penance  by  a  saintly  Styrian 
monk 

"Whose  flesh  was  too  much  with  him,) 
slipping  through 

Some  unaware  unbuttoned  casualty 

Of  the  under  waistcoat.  With  an  ab- 
sent air 

Sir  Blaise  sate  fingering  it,  and  speak- 
ing low, 

While  I  upon  the  sofa  heard  it  all. 

"My  dear  young  friend,  if  we  could 

bear  our  eyes, 
Like  blessedest  St.  Lucy,  on  a  plate. 
They  would  not  trick  us  into  choos- 
ing wives. 
As  doublets,  by  the  color.     Otherwise 
Our    fathers    chose;    and    therefore, 

when  they  had  hung 
Their  household  keys  about  a  lady's 

waist, 
The  sense  of  duty  gave  her  dignity : 
She    kept    her    bosom    holy  to    her 

babes. 
And,  if  a  moralist  reproved  her  dress, 
"Twas,   "Too   much   starch!"    and 
not,  "Too  little  lawn  !" 

"  Now,  pshaw  !  "  returned  the  other 

in  a  heat, 
A    little    fretted     by    being    called 

"  Young  friend," 
Or  so  I  took  it,  —  "  for  St.  Lucy's  sake, 
If  she's  the  saint  to  swear  by,  let  us 

leave 
Our  fathers,  —  plagued  enough  about 

our  sons !  " 
(He  stroked  his  beardless  chin)  "  yes, 

plagued,  sir,  plagued: 
The  future  generations  lie  on  us 
As  heavy  as  the  nightmare  of  a  seer; 
Our  meat    and    drink    grow  painful 

prophecy. 
I   ask  you,   have  we  leisure,   if  we 

liked. 
To  hollow  out  our   weary  hands  to 

keep 
Your   intermittent  rushlight    of    the 

past 


From  draughts  in  lobbies  ?    Prejudice 
of  sex 

And     marriage-law  .  .  .  the     socket 
drops  them  through 

While  we   two  speak,  however  may 
protest 

Some  over-delicate  nostrils  like  your 
own, 

'Gainst  odors  thence  arising." 

"  You  are  young," 

Sir  Blaise  objected. 

"  If  I  am,"  he  said 

With  fire,  "  though  somewhat  less  so 
than  I  seem. 

The  young  run  on  before,  and  see  the 
thing 

That's  coming.    '  Reverence  for  the 
young  ! '  I  cry. 

In   that  new  church  for  which   the 
world's  near  rij^e, 

You'll  have  the  yovxnger  in  the  eld- 
er's chair. 

Presiding  with  his  ivory  front  of  hope 

O'er  foreheads  clawed  by  cruel  car- 
rion birds 

Of  life's  experience." 

"  Pray  your  blessing,  sir," 

Sir  Blaise  replied  good-humoredly. 
"  I  plucked 

A  silver  hair  this  morning  from  my 
beard. 

Which  left  me  your  inferior.     Would 
I  were 

Eighteen,   and    worthy  to  admonish 
you  ! 

If  young  men  of  your  order  run  be- 
fore 

To  see  such  sights   as  sexual  preju- 
dice 

And     marriage-law      dissolved,  —  in 
plainer  words, 

A  general  concubinage  expressed 

In  a  universal  ]3ruriency,  —  the  thing 

Is  scarce  worth  running  fast  for,  and 
you'd  gain 

Bv  loitering  with  your  elders." 

"  Ah  !  "  he  said, 

"  Who,  getting  to  the  top  of  Pisgah- 
hill, 

Can  talk  with  one  at  bottom  of  the 
view. 

To  make  it  comprehensible?    Why, 
Leigh 

Himself,  although  our  ablest  man,  I 
said. 

Is  scarce  advanced  to  see  as  far  as 
this; 

Which  some  are.    He  takes  up  imper- 
fectly 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


The  social  question,  —by  one  handle, 

—  leaves 
Tlie  rest  to  trail.    A  Christian  socialist 
Is  Romney  Leigh,  you  understand." 

"  Not  I. 
I    disbelieve     in      Christian-Pagans, 

much 
As  you  in  women-fishes.     If  we  mix 
Two  colors,  we  lose  both,  and  make  a 

third, 
Distinct  from  either.    Mark  you  !   to 

mistake 
A  color  is  the  sign  of  a  sick  brain. 
And  mine,  I  thank  the  saints,  is  clear 

and  cool : 
A  neutral  tint  is  here  impossible. 
The  church  —  and   by  the   church,  I 

mean,  of  course. 
The     catholic,      apostolic,      mother- 
church  — 
Draws  lines  as  plain  and  straight  as 

her  own  wall. 
Inside  of  which  are  Christians,  obvi- 
ously. 
And  outside  .  .  .  dogs." 

"  We  thank  you.     "Well  I  know 
The    ancient    mother-church    would 

fain  still  bite. 
For  all  her  toothless  gums,  as  Leigh 

himself 
AVould  fain  be  a  Christian  still,  for  all 

his  wit. 
Pass  that:  you  two  may  settle  it  for 

me. 
You're  slow  in  England.     In  a  month 

I  learnt 
At  Gottingen  enough  philosophy 
To  stock    your    English  schools  for 

fifty  years ; 
Pass    that    too.    Here  alone,   I   stop 

you  short, 
—  Supposing  a  true  man   like   Leigh 

could  stand 
Unequal  in  the  statvire  of  his  life 
To  the  height  of  his  opinions.     Choose 

a  wife 
Because  of  a  smooth  skin  ?    Not  he, 

not  he  ! 
He'd  rail  at  Venus'  self  for  creaking 

shoes. 
Unless  she  walked  his  way  of  right- 
eousness ; 
And  if  he  takes  a  Venus  Meretrix 
(No  imputation  on  the  lady  there) 
Be   sure,    that,    by   some    sleight   of 

Christian  art. 
He  has  metamorphosed  and  converted 

her 
To  a  Blessed  Virgin." 


"  Soft !  "  Sir  Blaise  drew  breath 

As  if  it  hurt  him,  —  "  Soft!  no  blasphe- 
my, 

I  pray  you  !  " 
"  The  first  Christians  did  the  thing: 

Why  not  the  last  ?  "  asked  he  of  Got- 
tingen, 

Witli  just  that  shade  of  sneering  on 
the  lip, 

Compensates  for  the  lagging  of  the 
beard, — 

"  And  so  the  case  is.  If  that  fairest 
fair 

Is  talked  of  as  the  future  wife  of 
Leigh, 

She's  talked  of  too,  at  least  as  cer- 
tainly. 

As  Leigh's  disciple.  You  may  find 
her  name 

On  all  his  missions  and  commissions, 
schools. 

Asylums,  hospitals:  he  had  her 
down. 

With  other  ladies  whom  her  starry 
lead 

Persuaded  from -their  spheres,  to  his 
country-place 

In  Shropshire,  to  the  famed  phalan- 
stery 

At  Leigh  Hall,  christianized  from 
Fourier's  own, 

(In  which  he  has  planted  out  his  sap- 
ling stocks 

Of  knowledge  into  social  nurseries) 

And  there  they  say  she  has  tarried 
half  a  week. 

And  milked  the  cows,  and  churned, 
and  pressed  the  curd, 

And  said  '  My  sister '  to  the  lowest 
drab 

Of  all  the  assembled  castaways:  such 
girls  ! 

Ay,  sided  with  them  at  the  washing- 
tub — 

Conceive,  Sir  Blaise,  those  naked 
perfect  arms. 

Round  glittering  arms,  plunged  el- 
bow-deep in  suds. 

Like  wild  swans  hid  in  Hlies  all 
a-shake." 

Lord  Howe  came  up.  "  What,  talk- 
ing poetry 

So  near  the  image  of  the  unfavoring 
Muse? 

That's  you.  Miss  Leigh:  I've  watched 
you  half  an  hour, 

Precisely  as  I  watched  the  statue 
called 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


93 


A  Pallas  in  the  Vatican.  —  You  mind 
The  face,  Sir  Blaise  ?  —  intensely  calm 

and  sad, 
As  wisdom  cut  it    off    from  fellow- 
ship. 
But  that  spoke  louder.  —  Not  a  word 

from  you  ! 
And  these  two  gentleman  were  bold, 

I  marked, 
And    unabashed    by    even    your    si- 
lence." 

"  Ah," 
Said   I,  "  my  dear   Lord  Howe,  you 

shall  not  speak 
To  a  printing  woman  who  has  lost  her 

place 
(The  sweet  safe  corner  of  the  house- 
hold fire  • 
Behind  the  heads  of  children)  com- 

l)liments, 
As   if  she  were  a  woman.    "We  who 

have  dipt 
The  curls  before  our  eyes  may  see  at 

least 
As  plain  as  men  do.     Speak  out,  man 

to  man. 
No  compliments,  beseech  you." 

"  Friend  to  friend, 
Let  that  be.    "We  are  sad  to-night,  I 

saw, 
( — Good-night,  Sir  Blaise  !  ah.  Smith 

—  he  has  slipped  away) 
I  saw  you  across  the  room,  and  staid. 

Miss  Leigh, 
To  keep  a  crowd  of  lion-hunters  off, 
"With  faces  toward  your  jungle.    There 

were  three : 
A  spacious  lady,  five  feet  ten,  and  fat, 
"Who  has  the  devil  in  her  (and  there's 

room) 
For  walking  to    and    fro    upon    the 

earth. 
From  Chijipewa  to  China ;  she  requires 
Your  autograph  upon  a  tinted  leaf 
'Twixt  Queen  Pomare's  and  Emperor 

Soulouque's. 
Pray  give  it !  she  has  energies,  though 

fat: 
For  me  I'd  rather  see  a  rick  on  fire 
Than  such  a  woman  angry.    Then  a 

youth 
Fresh  from  the  backwoods,  green  as 

the  underboughs, 
Asks  modestly.  Miss  Leigh,  to  kiss 

your  shoe. 
And  adds  he  has  an  epic  in  twelve 

parts, 
"Which  when  you've  read,  you'll  do  it 

for  his  boot: 


All  which  I  saved  you,  and  absorb 

next  week 
Both  manuscript  and  man,  —  because 

a  lord 
Is  still  more  potent  than  a  poetess 
"With  any  extreme  Republican.    Ah, 

ah, 
You  smile  at  last,  then." 

"Thank  you." 

"  Leave  the  smile. 
I'll   lose    the    thanks   for't,    ay,   and 

throw  you  in 
My    transatlantic    girl,   with    golden 

eyes, 
That  draw  you  to  her  splendid  white- 
ness as 
The  pistil  of  a  water-lily  draws, 
Adust  with  gold.    Those  girls  across 

the  sea 
Are  tyrannously  pretty,  and  I  swore 
(She  seemed  to  me  an  innocent  frank 

girl) 
To  bring  her  to  you  for  a  woman's 

kiss; 
Not  now,  but  on  some  other  day  or 

week: 
—  "We'll  call  it  jierjury;  I  give  her  up." 

"  No,  bring  her." 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  you  make  it  hard 
To  touch  such  goodness  with  a  grimy 

palm. 
I  thought  to  tease  you  well,  and  fret 

you  cross, 
And  steel  myself,  when  rightly  vexed 

with  you. 
For  telling  you  a  thing  to  tease  you 

more." 

"Of  Romney?" 

"  No,  no:  nothing  worse,"  he  cried, 
"  Of    Romney    Leigh    than    what    is 

buzzed  about, — 
That  he  is  taken  in  an  eye-trap  too, 
Like  many  half  as  wise.    The  thing 

I  mean 
Refers  to  you,  not  him." 

"Refers  to  me." 

He  echoed,  —  "'Me'  !  Y''ou  sound  it 
like  a  stone 

Dropped  down  a  dry  well  very  list- 
lessly 

By  one  who  never  thinks  about  the 
toad 

Alive  at  the  bottom.  Presently  per- 
haps 

You'll  sound  vour  '  me  '  more  proud- 
ly-till  I  shrink." 


94 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


"  Lord  Howe's  the  toad,  then,  in  this 

question  ?  " 

"Brief, 
We'll  take  it  graver.     Give  me  sofa^ 

room. 
And  quiet  hearing.     You  know  Eg- 

linton,  — 
John  Eglinton  of  Eglinton  in  Kent  ?  " 

"Is  he  the  toad?    He's  rather  like 

the  snail, 
Known  chiefly  for  the  house  upon  his 

back: 
Divide  the  man  and  house,  you  kill 

the  man: 
That's  Eglinton    of    Eglinton,    Lord 

Howe." 

He  answered  grave:  "A  reputable 
man. 

An  excellent  landlord  of  the  olden 
stamp 

If  somewhat  slack  in  new  philanthro- 
pies. 

Who  keeps  his  birthdays  with  a  ten- 
ants' dance. 

Is  hard  upon  them  when  they  miss 
the  church 

Or  hold  their  children  back  from  cate- 
chism, 

But  not  ungentle  when  the  aged  poor 

Pick  sticks  at  hedgesides:  nay,  I've 
heard  him  say, 

'  The  old  dame  has  a  twinge  because 
she  stoops: 

That's  punishment  enough  for  felo- 
ny.'" 

"  O  tender-hearted  landlord  !   may  I 

take 
My  long  lease  with   him,   when  the 

time  arrives 
For  gathering  winter-fagots  ! ' ' 

"He  likes  art; 
Buys  books    and    pictures  ...  of    a 

certain  kind; 
Neglects    no   j^atent   duty;    a    good 

son  "... 

"  To  a  most  obedient  mother.  Born 
to  wear 

His  father's  shoes,  he  wears  her  hus- 
band's too: 

Indeed  I've  heard  it's  touching. 
Dear  Lord  Howe, 

You  shall  not  praise  me  so  agaiust 
your  heart 

When  I'm  at  worst  for  praise  and 
fagots." 


"Be 

Less  bitter  with  me;  for  .  .  .  in  short," 

he  said, 
"  I  have  a  letter,  which  he  urged  me 

so 
To  bring  you  ...  I  could    scarcely 

choose  but  yield ; 
Insisting   that   a    new  love,  passing 

through 
The  hand  of  an  old  friendship,  caught 

from  it 
Some  reconciling  odor." 

"  Love,  you  say  ? 
My  lord,  I  cannot  love:  I  only  find 
The  rhyme  for  love;   and   that's  not 

love,  my  lord. 
Take  back  your  letter." 

"  Pause.    You'll  read  it  first  ?  " 

"I  will  not  read  it:  it  is  stereotyped, 

The  same  he  wrote  to,  —  anybody's 
name, 

Anne  Blythe  the  actress,  when  she 
died  so  true 

A  duchess  fainted  in  a  private  box ; 

Pauline  the  dancer,  after  the  great 
pas 

In  which  her  little  feet  winked  over- 
head 

Like  other  fireflies,  and  amazed  the 
pit; 

Or  Baldinacci,  when  her  F  in  alt 

Had  touched  the  silver  tops  of  heaven 
itself 

With  such  a  pungent  spirit-dart,  the 
Queen 

Laid  softly,  each  to  each,  her  white- 
gloved  palms. 

And  sighed  for  joy ;  or  else  (I  thank 
your  friend) 

Aurora  Leigh,  when  some  indifferent 
rhymes, 

Like  those  the  boys  sang  round  the 
holy  ox 

On    Memphis-highway,    chance    per- 
haps to  set 

Our     Apis-publlc     lowing.     Oh,     he 
wants. 

Instead  of  any  worthy  wife  at  home, 

A  star  upon  his  stage  of  Eglinton  ? 

Advise    him    that    he    is    not    over- 
shrewd 

In  being  so  little  modest:  a  dropped 
star 

Makes  bitter  waters,  says  a  Book  I've 
read, — 

And  there's  his  unread  letter." 

"  My  dear  friend," 

Lord  Howe  began  .  .  . 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


In  haste  I  tore  the  phrase. 
"  You  mean  your  friend  of  Eglinton, 
or  me?  " 

"I  mean  you,  yon!"    he  answered 

with  some  fire. 
"  A  happy  life  means  prudent  com- 
promise; 
The  tare  runs  through   the  farmer's 

garnered  sheaves, 
And,  thougli  the  gleaner's  apron  holds 

pure  wheat 
We    count    her    poorer.     Tare    with 

wheat,  we  cry. 
And  good  with  drawbacks.   You,  you 

love  your  art, 
And,   certain  of    vocation,   set    your 

soul 
On   utterance.     Only,   in    this  world 

we  have  made, 
(They  say  God  made  it  first,  but  if  he 

did 
'Twas  so  long  since,  and,  since,  we 

have  spoiled  it  so. 
He  scarce  would  know  it,  if  he  looked 

this  way, 
From  hells  we  preach   of,  with  the 

flames  blown  out,) 
—  In  this   bad,  twisted,  topsy-turvy 

world. 
Where  all  the  heaviest  wrongs  get 

uppermost,  — 
In  this  uneven,  unfostering  England 

here. 
Where     ledger-strokes     and    sword- 
strokes  count  indeed. 
But  soul-strokes  merely  tell  upon  the 

flesh 
They  strike  from,  —  it  is  hard  to  stand 

for  art, 
Unless  some  golden  tripod  from  the  sea 
Be    fished    up,    by    Apollo's    divine 

chance. 
To  throne    such    feet    as  yours,   my 

prophetess, 
At  Delphi.    Think,  —  the  god  comes 

down  as  fierce 
As  twenty  bloodhounds,  shakes  you, 

strangles  you. 
Until  the  oracular  shriek  shall  ooze  in 

froth  ! 
At  best  'tis  not  all   ease;   at  worst 

too  hard. 
A  place  to   stand  on  is  a  'vantage 

gained, 
And  here's  your  tripod.    To  be  plain, 

dear  friend, 
You're  poor,  except  in  what  you  rich- 
ly give ; 


Y'ou  labor  for  3  our  own  bread  pain- 
fully, 

Or  ere  you  pour  our  wine.  For  art's 
sake,  pause." 

I  answered  slow,  —  as  some  wayfar- 
ing man. 

Who  feels  himself  at  night  too  far 
from  home. 

Makes  steadfast  face  against  the  bitter 
wind, — 

"  Is  art  so  less  a  thing  than  virtue 
is, 

That  artists  first  must  cater  for  their 
ease. 

Or  ever  they  make  issue  past  them- 
selves 

To  generous  use  ?    Alas  !  and  is  it  so, 

That  we  who  would  be  somewhat 
clean  must  sweep 

Our  ways,  as  well  as  walk  them,  and 
no  friend 

Confirm  us  nobly,  —  '  Leave  results 
to  God, 

But  you,  be  clean  ! '  What !  '  pru- 
dent compromise 

Makes  acceptable  life,'  you  say  in- 
stead, — 

You,  you,  Lord  Howe?  —  in  things 
indifferent,  well. 

For  instance,  compromise  the  wheaten 
bread 

For  rye,  the  meat  for  lentils,  silk  for 
serge, 

And  sleep  on  down,  if  needs,  for  sleep 
on  straw ; 

But  there  end  compromise.  I  will 
not  bate 

One  artist-dream  on  straw  or  down, 
my  lord. 

Nor  pinch  my  liberal  soul,  though  I 
be  poor. 

Nor  cease  to  love  high,  though  I  live 
thus  low." 

So  speaking,  with  less  anger  in  my 
voice 

Than  sorrow,  I  rose  quickly  to  de- 
part ; 

While  he,  thrown  back  upon  the  noble 
shame 

Of  such  high  stumbling  natures,  mur- 
mured words,  — 

The  right  words  after  wrong  ones. 
Ah,  the  man 

Is  worthy,  but  so  given  to  entertain 

Impossible  plans  of  superhuman  life. 

He  sets  his  virtues  on  so  raised  a 
shelf, 


I 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


To  keep  them  at  the  grand  millennial 

height, 
He  has  to  mount  a  stool  to  get  at 

them, 
And    meantime    lives    on    q.uite  the 

common  way. 
With  everybody's  morals. 

As  we  passed, 
Lord  Howe  insisting  that  his  friendly 

arm 
Should  oar  me  across  the  sparkling, 

brawling  stream 
Which  swept  from  room  to  room,  we 

fell  at  once 
On  Lady  Waldemar.     "  Miss  Leigh," 

she  said, 
And  gave  me  such  a  smile,  — so  cold 

and  bright. 
As  if  she  tried  it  in  a  'tiring  glass 
And    liked    it,  —  "all  to-night    I've 

strained  at  you 
As  babes  at  bawbles  held   up  out  of 

reach 
By  spiteful  nurses,  ('  Never  snatch,' 

they  say,) 
And  there  you  sate,  most  perfectly 

shut  in 
By  good  Sir  Blaise  and  clever  Mister 

Smith, 
And  then  our  dear  Lord  Howe  !     At 

last  indeed 
I  Almost  snatched.     I  have  a  world  to 

speak 
About  your  cousin's  place  in  Shrop- 
shire where 
I've  been   to  see  his  work  .  .  .  our 

work,  —  you  heard 
I  went?  .  .  .  and  of  a  letter  yester- 
day. 
In  which  if  I  should  read  a  page  or 

two 
You  might  feel  interest,  though  you're 

locked  of  course 
In    literary     toil.  —  You'll     like     to 

hear 
Your  last  book   lies  at  the  phalan- 
stery, 
As    judged  innocuous  for  the   elder 

girls 
And  younger  women  who  still  care 

for  books. 
We  all  must  read,  you  see,  before  we 

live. 
Till  slowly  the  ineffable  light  comes 

up 
And  as  it  deepens  drowns  the  written 

word: 
So  said  your  cousin,  while  we  stood 

and  felt 


A  sunset  from  his  favorite  beech-tree 

seat. 
He  might    have    been  a  poet  if    he 

would ; 
But  then  he  saw  the  higher  thing  al 

once 
And  climbed  to  it.     I  think  he  looks 

well  now, 
Has    quite    got    over    that    unfortu- 
nate .  .  . 
Ah,   ah  ...  I  know  it  moved  you. 

Tender-heart  ! 
You   took  a  liking  to  the  wretched 

girl. 
Perhaps    you    thought  the  marriage 

suitable, 
Who  knows  ?    A  poet  hankers  for  ro- 
mance. 
And  so  on.    As  for  Romney  Leigh, 

'tis  sure 
He  never  loved  her,  —  never.     By  the 

way. 
You    have    not    heard    of    her  .  .  .  ? 

Quite  out  of  sight, 
And  out  of  saving?    Lost  in  every 

sense  ?  " 

She  might  have  gone  on  talking  half 

an  hour 
And  I  stood  still,  and  cold,  and  pale, 

I  think, 
As  a  garden-statue  a  child  pelts  with 

snow 
For  pretty  pastime.    Every  now  and 

then 
I  put  in  "yes"   or  "no,"  I  scarce 

knew  why: 
The   blind  man  walks  wherever  the 

dog  pulls, 
And  so  I  answered.    Till  Lord  Howe 

broke  in: 
"  What  i^enance  takes  the  wretch  who 

interrupts 
The  talk  of  charming  women  ?    I  at 

last 
Must  brave  it.     Pardon,  Lady  Walde- 
mar ! 
The  lady  on  my  arm  is  tired,  unwell, 
And  loyally  I've  promised  she  shall 

saj' 
No  harder  word  this  evening  than  .  .  . 

good-night: 
The  rest  her  face  speaks  for  her."  — 

Then  we  went. 

And  I  breathe  large  at  home.     I  drop 

my  cloak, 
Unclasp  my  girdle,   loose  the   band 

that  ties 


"  We  fell  at  once  on  Lady  Waldemar."  —  Page  96. 


#ER8fTy 
or 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


97 


My  hair  .  .  .  now  could  I  but  unloose 

my  soul ! 
"We  are  sepulchred  alive  in  this  close 

world, 
And  want  more  room. 

The  charming  woman  there  — 
This  reckoning  u^)  and  writing  down 

her  talk 
Affects    me     singularly.      How    .she 

talked 
To  pain  me !    woman's  spite.     You 

wear  steel  mail; 
A  woman  takes  a  housewife  from  her 

breast, 
And  plucks  the  delicatest  needle  out 
As  'twere  a  rose,  and  pricks  vou  care- 
fully 
'Neath  nails,  'neath  eyelids,  in  your 

nostrils,  say: 
A  beast  would  roar  so  tortured;  but 

a  man, 
A  human  creature,  must  not,   shall 

not,  flinch. 
No,  not  for  shame. 

What  vexes,  after  all. 
Is  just  that  such  as  she,  with  such 

as  I, 
Knows  how  to  vex.     Sweet  Heaven  ! 

she  takes  me  up 
As  if  she  had  fingered  me,  and  dog- 
eared me, 
And  spelled  me  by  the  fireside  half 

a  life. 
She    knows    my    turns,    my    feeble 

points.    What  then  ? 
The  knowledge  of  a  thing  implies  the 

thing: 
Of  course,  she  'ound  that  in  me,  she 

saw  that, 
Her    pencil    underscored    this    for  a 

fault, 
And  I,  still  ignorant.     Shut  the  book 

up  —  close  ! 
And  crush  that  beetle  in  the  leaves. 

O  heart ! 
"At  last  we  shall  grow  hard  too,  like 

the  rest. 
And  call  it  self-defence  because  we 

are  soft. 

And  after  all,  now  .  .  .  why  should 

I  be  pained 
That     Romney    Leigh,    my    cousin, 

should  espouse 
This    Lady    Waldemar?      And,    say 

she  held 
Her  newly  blossomed  gladness  in  my 

face,  .  .  . 
'T  was  natural  surely,  if  not  generous. 


Considering  how,  when  winter  held 
her  fast, 

I  helped  the  frost  with  mine,  and 
pained  her  more 

Than  she  pains  me.  Pains  me  !  — 
But  wherefore  pained  ? 

'Tis  clear  my  cousin  Romney  wants 
a  wife. 

So,  good  !  The  man's  need  of  the 
woman,  here. 

Is  greater  than  the  woman's  of  the 
man. 

And  easier  served ;  for  where  the  man 
discerns 

A  sex  (ah,  ah,  the  man  can  general- 
ize, 

Said  he),  we  see  but  one  ideally 

And  really:  where  we  yearn  to  lose 
ourselves. 

And  melt  like  white  pearls,  in  an- 
other's wine. 

He  seeks  to  double  himself  by  what 
he  loves. 

And  makes  his  drink  more  costly  by 
our  pearls. 

At  board,  at  bed,  at  work  and  holi- 
day. 

It  is  not  good  for  man  to  be  alone; 

And  that's  his  way  of  thinking,  first 
and  last. 

And  thus  my  cousin  Romney  wants 
a  wife. 

But  then  my  cousin  sets  his  dignity 

On  personal  virtue.  If  he  under- 
stands 

By  love,  like  others,  self-aggrandize- 
ment. 

It  is  that  he  may  verily  be  great 

By  doing  riglitly  and  kindly.  Once 
he  thought. 

For  charitable  ends  set  duly  forth 

In  heaven's  white  judgment-book,  to 
marry  .  .  .  ah. 

We'll  call  her  name  Aurora  Leigh, 
although 

She's  changed  since  then!  —  and 
once,  for  social  ends, 

Poor  Marian  Erie,  my  sister  Marian 
Erie, 

My  woodland  sister,  sweet  maid  Mar- 
ian, 

Whose  memory  moans  on  in  me  like 
the  wind 

Through  ill-shut  casements,  making 
me  more  sad 

Than  ever  I  find  reasons  for.     Alas, 

Poor  pretty  plaintive  face,  embodied 
ghost ! 


I 


) 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


He  finds  it  easy,  then,  to  clap  thee  off 
Froua  pulling  at  his  sleeve  and  book 

and  pen, 
He   locks  thee  out  at  night  into  the 

cold, 
Away  from  butting  with  thy  horny 

eyes 
Against  his  crystal  dreams,  that  now 

he's  strong 
To  love  anew  ?  that  Lady  Waldemar 
Succeeds  uiy  Marian  ? 

After  all,  why  not  ? 
He  loved  not  Marian  more  than  once 

he  loved 
Aurora.      If    he    loves    at    last    that 

third, 
Albeit  she  prove  as  slippery  as  spilt 

oil 
On  marble  floors,  I  will  not  augur 

him 
111  luck  for  that.    Good  love,  howe'er 

ill  placed. 
Is  better  for  a  man's  soul  in  the  end 
Than  if    he  loved  ill  what  deserves 

love  well. 
A  Pagan  kissing  for  a  step  of  Pan 
The    wild-goat's    hoof-print    on    the 

loamy  down, 
Exceeds    our    modern    thinker    who 

turns  back 
The     strata  .  .  .  granite,    limestone, 

coal,  and  clay. 
Concluding     coldly    with,     "Here's 

law!  Where's  God?" 

And  then  at  worse,  —  if  Romney  loves 

her  not,  — 
At  worst,  —  if  he's  incapable  of  love, 
(Which  may  be),  — then,  indeed,  for 

such  a  man 
Incajiable  of  love,  she's  good  enough; 
For  she,  at  worst  too,  is  a  woman  still. 
And  loves  him  ...  as  the    sort    of 

woman  can. 

My  loose  long  hair  began  to  burn  and 

creep. 
Alive  to    the  very   ends,   about    my 

knees: 
I  swept    it    backward,   as  the  wind 

sweeps  flame. 
With  the  passion  of  my  hands.     Ah, 

Romney  laughed 
One  day  .  .  .  (how  full  the  memories 

come  up !) 
—  "  Your  Florence  fireflies  live  on  in 

your  hair," 
He  said,   "  it  gleams    so."     Well,    I 

wrung  them  out, 


My  fireflies;  made  a  knot  as  hard  as 

life 
Of    those    loose,    soft,   imin-acticable 

curls, 
And  then  sat  down  and  thought  .  .  . 

"  She  shall  not  think 
Her  thought  of  me,"  —  and  drew  my 

desk,  and  wrote. 

"Dear  Lady  Waldemar,  I  could  not 

speak 
With  people  round  me,  nor  can  sleep 

to-night. 
And  not  speak,  after  the  great  news 

I  heard 
Of  you  and  of  my  cousin.    May  you  be 
Most  happy,  and  the  good  he  meant 

the  world 
Replenish  his  own  life  !    Say  what  I 

say, 
And  let  my  word  be  sweeter  for  your 

mouth, 
As  you  are  you  ...  I  only  Aurora 

Leigh." 

That's  quiet,   guarded  :    though    she 

hold  it  up 
Against    the    light,    she'll    not    see 

through  it  more 
Than  lies  there  to  be  seen.     So  much 

for  pride ; 
And  now  for  peace  a  little.     Let  me 

stop 
All  writing  back  .  .  .  "  Sweet  thanks, 

my  sweetest  friend. 
You've  made  more  joyful  my  great 

joy  itself." 
—  No,  that's  too  simple:  she  would 

twist  it  thus, 
"My  joy  would  still  be  as  sweet  as 

thyme  in  drawers, 
However  slmt  up  in  the  dark    and 

dry; 
But  violets  aired  and  dewed  by  love 

like  yours 
Outsmell  all  thyme  :  we  keep  that  in 

our  clothes," 
But  drop  the  other  down  our  bosoms 

till 
They  smell  like  "...  Ah  !  I  see  her 

writing  back 
Just  so.     She'll  make  a  nosegay  of 

her  words. 
And  tie  it  with  blue  ribbons  at  the 

end, 
To  suit  a  poet.     Pshaw  ! 

And  then  we'll  have 
The  call  to  church  ;  the  broken,  .sad, 

bad  dream 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


99 


Dreamed  out  at  last ;  the  marriage- 
vow  complete 

"With  the  marriage-hreakfast ;  praying 
in  white  gloves, 

Drawn  off  in  haste  for  drinking  jiagan 
toasts 

In  somewhat  stronger  wine  than  any 
sipped 

By  gods  since  Bacchus  had  his  way 
with  grapes. 

A  postscript  stops  all  that  and  rescues 

me. 
"  You  need  not  write.    I  have  heen 

overworked, 
And  think  of  leaving  London,  Eng- 
land even, 
And  hastening  to  get  nearer  to  the  sun, 
Where  men  sleep  better.   So,  adieu  !  " 

I  fold 
And  seal  ;  and  now  I'm  out  of   all 

the  coil  : 
I  breathe  now,  I  spring  upward  like  a 

branch 
The     ten-years'    schoolboy     with     a 

crooked  stick 
May  pull  down  to  his  level  in  search 

of  nuts. 
But  cannot  hold  a  moment.    How  we 

twang 
Back  on  the  blue  sky,  and  assert  our 

height. 
While  he  stares  after !    Now,  the  won- 
der seems 
That  I  could  wrong  myself  by  such  a 

doubt. 
We  poets  always  have  uneasy  hearts, 
Because  our  hearts,  large-rounded  as 

the  globe. 
Can  turn  but  one  side  to  the  sun  at 

once. 
We  are  used  to  dip  our  artist  hands  in 

gall 
And  potash,  trying  potentialities 
Of  alternated  color,  till  at  last 
We  get  confused,  and  wonder  for  our 

skin 
How   nature  tinged    it    first.     Well, 

here's  the  true 
Good    flesh-color :    I    recognize    my 

hand. 
Which  Romney  Leigh  may  clasp  as 

just  a  friend's, 
And  keep  his  clean. 

And  now,  my  Italy. 
Alas  !   if   we  could  ride  with  naked 

souls. 
And  make  no  noise,  and  pay  no  price 

at  all, 


I  would  have  seen  thee  sooner,  Italy  ; 
For   still   I   have   heard    thee   crying 

through  my  life. 
Thou    piercing    silence    of     ecstatic 

graves, 
Men  call  that  name. 

But  even  a  witch  to-day 
Must  melt  down  golden  pieces  in  the 

nard, 
Wherewith  to  anoint  her  broomstick 

ere  she  rides ; 
And  poets  evermore  are  scant  of  gold. 
And  if  they  find  a  piece  behind  the 

door. 
It  turns  by  sunset  to  a  withered  leaf. 
The  Devil  himself  scarce  trusts  his 

patented 
Gold-making  art  to  any  who  make 

rhymes. 
But  culls  his  Faustus  from  philoso- 
phers. 
And    not  from  jioets.      "  Leave    my 

Job,"  said  God  ; 
And  so  the  Devil  leaves  him  without 

pence, 
And  poverty  proves  plainly  special 

grace. 
In    these    new,    just,    administrative 

times 
Men  clamor  for  an  order  of  merit  : 

why  ? 
Here's  black  bread  on  the  table,  and 

no  wine  ! 

At  least  I  am  a  poet  in  befng  poor, 

Thank  God  !     I  wonder  if  the  manu- 
script 

Of  my  long  poem,  if  'twere  sold  out- 
right. 

Would  fetch  enough  to  buy  me  shoes 
to  go 

Afoot     (thrown     in,     the     necessary 
patch 

For  the  other  side  the  Alps)  ?    It  can- 
not be. 

I  fear  that  I  must  sell  this  residue 

Of  my  father's  books,  although  the 
Elzevirs 

Have  fly-leaves  over-written  by  his 
hand 

In  faded  notes  as  thick  and  fine  and 
brown 

As  cobwebs  on  a  tawny  monument 

Of  the  old  Greeks  —  conferenda  hac 
cum  his  — 

Corrupte  citat  —  lege  potiiis, 

And  so   on,   in    the    scholar's    regal 
way 


^m  I  ^m    I 


it 


100 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Of  giving  judgment  on  the  parts  of 
speech, 

As  if  he  sate  on  all  twelve  thrones  up- 
piled, 

Arraigning  Israel.  Ay,  but  books 
and  notes 

Must  go  together.  And  this  Proclus 
too, 

In  these  dear  quaint  contracted  Gre- 
cian types. 

Fantastically  crumpled,  like  his 
thoughts, 

Which  would  not  seem  too  plain  ; 
you  go  round  twice 

For  one  step  forward,  then  you  take  it 
back, 

Because  you're  somewhat  giddy ; 
there's  the  rule 

For  Proclus.  Ah,  I  stained  this  mid- 
dle leaf 

With  pressing  in't  my  Florence  iris- 
bell, 

Long  stalk  and  all.  My  father  chided 
me 

For  that  stain  of  blue  blood.  I  recol- 
lect 

The  ijeevish  turn  his  voice  took,  — 
"  Silly  girls  ! 

"Who  plant  their  flowers  in  our  phi- 
losoi^hy 

To  make  it  fine,  and  only  spoil  the 
book. 

No  more  of  it,  Aurora."  Yes—  no 
more. 

Ah,  blame  of  love,  that's  sweeter  than 
all  praise 

Of  those  who  love  not !  'Tis  so  lost 
to  me, 

I  cannot,  in  such  beggared  life,  afford 

To  lose  my  Proclus  —  not  for  Florence 
even. 

The  kissing  Judas,  Wolff,  shall  go 
instead, 

Who  builds  us  such  a  royal  book  as 
this 

To  honor  a  chief  poet,  folio-built. 

And  writes  above,  "  The  house  of  No- 
body !  " 

Who  floats  in  cream  as  rich  as  any 
sucked 

From  Juno's  breasts,  the  broad  Ho- 
meric lines, 

And  while  with  their  spondaic  pro- 
digious mouths 

They  lap  the  lucent  margins  as  babe- 
gods, 

Proclaims  them  bastards.  Wolff's 
an  atheist ; 


And  if  the  Iliad  fell  out,  as  he  says. 
By  mere  fortuitous  concourse  of  old 

songs. 
Conclude  as  much,  too,  for  the  uni- 
verse. 

That  Wolff,  those  Platos  :  sweep  the 
upper  shelves 

As  clean  as  this,  and  so  I  am  almost 
rich, 

Which  means,  not  forced  to  think  of 
being  poor 

In   sight  of   ends.      To-morrow  :    no 
delay. 

I'll  wait  in  Paris  till  good  Carrington 

Dispose  of  such,  and,  having  chaffered 
for 

My  book's  price  with  the  publisher, 
direct 

All  proceeds  to  me.     Just  a  line  to 
ask 

His  help. 

And  now  I  come,  my  Italy, 

My  own  hills  !    Are  you  'ware  of  me, 
my  hills,  — 

How  I  burn  toward  you  ?  do  you  feel 
to-night 

The  urgency  and  yearning  of  my  soul. 

As  sleeping  mothers  feel  the  sucking 
babe. 

And  smile  ?    Nay,   not    so  much  as 
when  in  heat 

Vain  lightnings  catch  at  your  invio- 
late tops 

And  tremble,  while  ye  are  steadfast. 
Still  ye  go 

Your  own  determined,  calm,  indiffer- 
ent way 

Toward  sunrise,  shade  by  shade,  and 
light  by  light, 

Of  all  the  grand  jirogression  nought 
left  out. 

As  if  God  verily  made  you  for  your- 
selves, 

And   would  not    interrupt   your  life 
with  ours. 


SIXTH    BOOK. 


The  English  have  a  scornful  insular 

way 
Of    calling    the    French  light.      The 

levity 
Is  in  the  judgment  only,  which   yet 

stands ; 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


101 


For,  say  a  foolish  thing  but  oft  enough 
(And  here's  the  secret  of  a  hundred 

creeds, 
Men  get    opinions  as  boys  learn  to 

spell, 
By    re-iteration    chiefly),    the    same 

thing 
Shall  pass  at  last  for  absolutely  wise, 
And  not  with  fools  exclusively.     And 

so 
We  say  the  French  are  light,  as  if  we 

said 
The  cat  mews,  or  the  milch-cow  gives 

us  milk: 
Say,    rather,    cats    are    milked,    and 

milch-cows  mew; 
For  what  is  lightness    but    inconse- 
quence, 
Vague  fluctuation  'twixt  effect  and 

cause, 
Compelled  by  neither?    Is  a  bullet 

light, 
That    dashes    from    the    gun-mouth, 

while  the  eye 
"Winks  and  the  heart  beats  one,  to 

flatten  itself 
To  a  wafer  on  the  white  speck  on  a 

wall 
A  hundred   paces   off^    Even  so  di- 
rect, 
So  sternly  undivertible  of  aim. 
Is  this  French  people. 

All  idealists 
Too  absolute  and  earnest,  with  them 

all 
The  idea  of  a  knife  cuts  real  fiesh; 
And   still,   devouring  the  safe  inter- 
val 
Which    nature    placed    between    the 

thought  and  act 
With  those  too  fiery  and   impatient 

souls. 
They  threaten    conflagration    to  the 

world. 
And   rush  with    most    unscrupulous 

logic  on 
Imi^ossible  practice.     Set  your  orators 
To  blow  upon  them  with  loud  windy 

mouths 
Through  watchword  phrases,  jest  or 

sentiment. 
Which  drive  our  burly  brutal  English 

mobs. 
Like  so  much  chaff,  whichever  way 

they  blow,  — 
This  light  French  iJeople  will  not  thus 

be  driven. 
They    turn    indeed;    but    then    thej' 

turn  upon 


Some  central  pivot  of  their  thought 
and  choice. 

And  veer  out  by  the  force  of  holding 
fast. 

That's  hard  to  understand,  for  Eng- 
lishmen 

Unused  to  abstract  questions,  and  un- 
trained 

To  trace  the  involutions,  valve  by 
valve. 

In  each  orbed  bulb-root  of  a  general 
truth , 

And  mark  what  subtly  fine  integu- 
ment 

Divides  opposed  compartments.  Free- 
dom's self 

Comes  concrete  to  us,  to  be  under- 
stood. 

Fixed  in  a  feudal  form  incaruately 

To  suit  our  ways  of  thought  and  rev- 
erence ; 

The  special  form,  with  us,  being  still 
the  thing. 

With  us,  I  say,  though  I'm  of  Italy 

By  mother's  birth  and  grave,  by 
father's  grave 

And  memory,  let  it  be,  —  a  poet's 
heart 

Can  swell  to  a  pair  of  nationalities, 

However  ill  lodged  in  a  woman's 
breast. 

And  so  I  am  strong  to  love  this  noble 
France, 

This  poet  of  the  nations,  who  dreams  on 

And  wails  on  (while  the  household 
goes  to  wreck) 

Forever,  after  some  ideal  good, 

Some  equal  poise  of  sex,  some  un- 
vowed  love 

Inviolate,  some  spontaneous  brother- 
hood. 

Some  wealth  that  leaves  none  poor 
and  finds  none  tired. 

Some  freedom  of  the  many  that  re- 
spects 

The  wisdom  of  the  few.  Heroic 
dreams  ! 

Sublime  to  dream  so;  natural  to 
wake ; 

And  sad  to  use  such  lofty  scaffold- 
ings, 

Erected  for  the  building  of  a  church. 

To  build,  instead,  a  brothel  or  a  pris- 
on. 

May  God  save  France  ! 

And  if  at  last  she  sighs 

Her  great  soul  up  into  a  great  man's 
face, 


hJ 


II 


102 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


To  flush  his  temples  out  so  gloriously 

That  few  dare  carp  at  Caesar  for  being 
bald, 

What  then  ?  This  Caesar  represents, 
not  reigns, 

And  is  no  despot,  though  twice  abso- 
lute: 

This  head  has  all  the  people  for  a 
heart; 

This  purple's  lined  with  the  democ- 
racy, — 

Now  let  him  see  to  it !  for  a  rent 
within 

Would  leave  irreparable  rags  with- 
out. 

A  serious  riddle :  And  such  anywhere 

Except  in  France,  and,  when  'tis 
found  in  France, 

Be  sure  to  read  it  rightly.  So,  I 
mused 

Up  and  down,  up  and  down,  the  ter- 
raced streets, 

The  glittering  boulevards,  the  white 
colonnades, 

Of  fair  fantastic  Paris  who  wears 
trees 

Like  plumes,  as  if  man  made  them, 
spire  and  tower 

As  if  they  had  grown  by  nature,  toss- 
ing up 

Her  fountains  in  the  sunshine  of  the 
squares. 

As  if  in  beauty's  game  she  tossed  the 
dice, 

Or  blew  the  silver  down-balls  of  her 
dreams 

To  sow  futurity  with  seeds  of  thought. 

And  count  the  passage  of  her  festive 
hours. 

The  city  swims  in  verdure,  beautiful 

As  Venice  on  the  waters,  —  the  sea- 
swan. 

What  bosky  gardens  dro^jped  in  close- 
walled  courts, 

Like  plums  in  ladies'  laps  who  start 
and  laugh ! 

What  miles  of  streets  that  run  on 
after  trees. 

Still  carrying  all  the  necessary  shops. 

Those  open  caskets  with  the  jewels 
seen  ! 

And  trade   is  art,  and  art's  philoso- 

In  Paris.    There's  a  silk,  for  instance, 

there, 
As  worth   an  artist's  study  for  the 

folds. 


As  that  bronze    opposite !    nay,   the 

bronze  has  faults; 
Art's  here  too  artful,  —  conscious  as  a 

maid 
Who  leans  to  mark  her  shadow  on 

the  wall 
Until  she  lose  a  'vantage  in  her  step. 
Yet  art  walks  forward,  and  kno^s 

where  to  walk: 
The  artists  also  are  idealists. 
Too  absolrte  for  nature,  logical 
To  austerity  in  the  ajiplication  of 
The  special   theory;   not  a  soul  con- 
tent 
To  f)aiut  a  crooked  pollard  and  an 

ass, 
As  the  English  will,  because  they  find 

it  so. 
And  like  it  somehow.  — There  the  old 

Tuileries 
Is  pulling  its  high  cap  down   on  its 

eyes. 
Confounded,  conscience-stricken,  and 

amazed 
By  the  apparition  of  a  new  fair  face 
In  those  devouring  mirrors.    Through 

the  grate 
Within  the  gardens,  what  a  heap  of 

babes. 
Swept    up    like    leaves    beneath  the 

chestnut-trees 
From  every  street  and  alley  of  the 

town. 
By  ghosts,    perhaps,   that    blow    too 

bleak  this  way 
A-looking  for  their  heads  1  dear  pretty 

babes, 
I  wish  them  luck  to  have  their  ball- 

l^lay  out 
Before  the  next  change.    Here  the  air 

is  thronged 
With  statues  poised  upon  their  col- 
umns tine. 
As  if  to  stand  a  moment  were  a  feat, 
Against  that  blue  !     What  squares  ! 

what  breathing-room 
For  a  nation  that  runs  fast,  ay,  runs 

against 
The  dentist's   teeth   at   the  corner  in 

pale  rows. 
Which  grin   at  progress,   in  an  epi- 
gram ! 

I  walked  the  day  out,  listening  to  the 
chink 

Of  the  first  Napoleon's  bones  in  his 
second  grave, 

By  victories  guarded  'neath  the  gold- 
en dome 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


103 


That  caps  all    Paris    like  a  bubble. 
"  Shall 

These  dry  bones  live,"  thought  Loiiis 
Philippe  once, 

And  lived  to  know.     Herein  is  argu- 
ment 

For  kings  and   politicians,   but  still 
more 

For  poets,  who  bear  buckets  to   the 
vrell 

Of  ampler  draught. 

These  crowds  are  very  good 

For  meditation  (when  we  are  very 
strong,) 

Though  love  of  beauty  makes  us  tim- 
orous, 

And  draws  us   backward    from    the 
coarse  town-sights 

To   count  the  daisies  upon  dappled 
fields, 

And  hear  the  streams  bleat  on  among 
the  hills 

In  innocent  and  indolent  repose; 

While  still  with  silken  elegiac  thoughts 

We  wind  out  from  us  the  distracting 
world. 

And  die  into  the  chrysalis  of  a  man. 

And  leave  the  best  that  may,  to  come 
of  us. 

In  some  brown  moth.    I  woiild   be 
bold,  and  bear, 

To  look  into  the  swarthiest  face  of 
things. 

For  God's  sake  who  has  made  them. 
Six  days'  work; 

The  last  day  shutting  'twixt  its  dawn 
and  eve 

The  whole  work  bettered  of  the  pre- 
vious five  ! 

Since  God  collected  and  resumed  in 
man 

The  firmaments,  the  strata,  and  the 
lights, 

Fish,  fowl,  and  beast,  and  insect, — 
all  their  trains 

Of  various  life  caught  back  upon  his 
arm. 

Re-organized,  and  constituted  man. 

The    microcosm,    the     adding-up    of 
works ; 

Within  whose  fluttering  nostrils,  then, 
at  last 

Consummating    himself    the    Maker 
sighed. 

As  some  strong  winner  at  the  foot- 
race sighs 

Touching  the  goal. 

Humanity  is  great; 

And  if  I  would  not  rather  pore  upon 


An  ounce  of  common,  ugly,  human 
dust. 

An  artisan's  palm  or  a  peasant's  brow, 

Unsmooth,  ignoble,  save  to  me  and 
God, 

Than  track  old   Nilus   to  his    silver 
roots. 

Or  wait  on  all  the  changes   of    the 
moon 

Among  the  mountain-peaks  of  Thes- 
saly 

(Until  her  magic  crystal  round  itself 

For  many  a  witch  to  see  in)  —  set  it 
down 

As  weakness,  strength  by  no  means. 
How  is  this. 

That  men  of  science,  osteologists 

And  surgeons,   lieat   some    poets    in 
respect 

For  nature?  —  count  nought  common 
or  unclean, 

Spend  raptures  upon  perfect    speci- 
mens 

Of  indurated  veins,  distorted  joints, 

Or   beautiful    new    cases    of    curved 
si)ine, 

While  we,  we  are  shocked  at  nature's 
falling  off, 

We  dare  to    shrink   back  from    her 
warts  and  blains. 

We  will  not,  when  she  sneezes,  look 
at  her. 

Not  even  to  say,  "  God  bless  her  !  " 
That's  our  wrong: 

For  that,  she  will  not  trust  us  often 
with 

Her  larger  sense  of  beauty  and   de- 
sire. 

But  tethers  us  to  a  lily  or  a  rose, 

And  bids    us    diet    on  the    dew  in- 
side. 

Left  ignorant  that  the  hungry  beggar- 
boy 

(Who  stares  unseen  against  our  ab- 
sent eyes. 

And  wonders  at  the  gods    that  we 
must  be, 

To  pass  so  careless  for  the  oranges  !) 

Bears  yet   a    breastful    of    a  fellow- 
w'orld 

To  this   world,   iindisparaged,  unde- 
spoiled, 

And  (while  we  scorn  him  for  a  flower 
or  two. 

As  being.  Heaven  help  us,  less  poeti- 
cal) 

Contains  himself    both    flowers    and 
firmaments 

And  surging  seas  and  aspectable  stars, 


104 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Aud  all  that  we  would  push  him  out 
of  sight 

In  order  to  see  nearer.    Let  us  pray 

God's  grace  to  keep  God's  image  in 
repute, 

That  so  the  poet  and  philanthropist 

(Even  I  and  llomney)  may  stand  side 
by  side, 

Because  we  both  stand  face  to  face 
with  men, 

Contemplating    the     people    in    the 
rough, 

Yet  each  so  follow  a  vocation,  his 

And  mine. 

I  walked  on,  musing  with  myself 

On  life  and   art,  and   whether   after 
all 

A  larger  metaphysics  might  not  help 

Our  physics,  a  completer  poetry 

Adjust  our  daily  life  and  vulgar  wants 

More  fully  than  the  special  outside 
plans. 

Phalansteries,  material  institutes. 

The  civil  conscriptions,  and  lay  mon- 
asteries 

Preferred    by   modern    thinkers,    as 
they  thought 

The  bread  of  man   Indeed  made  all 
his  life, 

And   washing   seven    times    in    the 
"  People's  Baths  " 

"Were  sovereign  for  a  people's  lepro- 
sy, 

Still  leaving  out  the  essential  proph- 
et's word 

That  comes  in  power.     On  which  we 
thunder  down. 

We  prophets,  poets,  —  Virtue's  in  the 
loord ! 

The  maker  burnt  the    darkness    up 
with  his. 

To  inaugurate  the  use  of  vocal  life; 

And  plant  a  poet's  word  even  deep 
enough 

In   any  man's  breast,   looking  pres- 
ently 

For  offshoots,  you  have  done  more 
for  the  man 

Than  if  you  dressed  him  in  a  broad- 
cloth coat, 

And  warmed  his  Sunday  pottage  at 
your  fire. 

Yet  Romney  leaves  me  .  .  . 

God  !  what  face  is  that  ? 

O  Romney,  O  Marian  ! 

Walking  on  the  quays. 

And  pulling  thoughts  to  pieces  leis- 
urely, 

As  if  I  caught  at  grasses  in  a  field, 


And  bit  them  slow  between  my  ab- 
sent lips. 

And  shred  them  with  my  hands  .  .  . 
What  face  is  that  ? 

What  a  face,  what  a  look,  what  a 
likeness  !     Full  on  mine 

The  sudden  blow  of  it  came  down, 
till  all 

My  blood  swam,  my  eyes  dazzled, 
then  I  sprang  .  .  . 

It  was  as  if  a  meditative  man 

Were  dreaming  out  a  summer  after. 

noon. 
And  watching  gnats  a-prick  upon  a 

pond. 
When  something  floats  up  suddenly, 

out  there, 
Turns  over  ...  a  dead  face,  known 

once  alive  .  .  . 
So  old,  so  new  !  it  would  be  dreadful 

now 
To  lose  the  sight,  aud  keep  the  doubt 

of  this: 
He  plunges  —  ha!  he  has  lost  it  in 

the  splash. 

I    plunged  —  I    tore    the    crowd    up, 

either  side, 
And    rushed    on,    forward,   forward, 

after  her. 
Her  ?  whom  ? 

A  woman  sauntered  slow  ra  front. 
Munching    an    apple  ;    she    left    off 

amazed 
As  if  I  had  snatched  it:   that's  not 

she,  at  least. 
A   man  walked    arm-linked  with    a 

lady  veiled, 
Both  heads  dropped  closer  than  the 

need  of  talk: 
They  started ;  he  forgot  her  with  his 

face. 
And  she,  herself,  and  clung  to  him  as 

if 
My  look  were  fatal.    Such  a  stream 

of  folk. 
And  all  with  cares  and  business  of 

their  own  ! 
I  ran  the  whole  quay  down  against 

their  eyes  — 
No    Marian;    nowhere    Marian.    Al- 

most,  now, 
I  could  call  "  Marian,  Marian  !  "  with 

the  shriek 
Of  desperate  creatures  calling  for  the 

dead. 
Where  is  she,  was  she  ?  was  she  any- 
where ? 


^i  I  ^m     I 


T 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


I  stood  still,  breathless,  gazing,  strain- 
ing out 

In  every  uncertain  distance,  till  at 
last 

A  gentleman  abstracted  as  myself 

Came  full  against  me,  then  resolved 
the  clash 

In  voluble  excuses,  —  obviously 

Some  learned  member  of  the  Institute 

Upon  his  way  there,  walking,  for  his 
health, 

"While  meditating  on  the  last  "  Dis- 
course; " 

Pinching  the  empty  air  'twixt  finger 
and  thumb, 

From  which  the  snuff  being  ousted 
by  that  shock 

Defiled  his  snow-white  waistcoat  duly 
pricked 

At  the  button-hole  with  honorable 
red; 

"Madame,  your  pardon,"  —  there  he 
swerved  from  me 

A  metre,  as  confounded  as  he  had 
heard 

That  Dumas  would  be  chosen  to  fill 
up 

The  next  chair  vacant,  by  his  "men 
in  us.'' 

Since  when  was  genius  found  respect- 
able ? 

It  passes  in  its  place,  indeed,  which 
means 

The  seventh  floor  back,  or  else  the 
hosi^ital. 

Revolving  pistols  are  ingenious 
things  ; 

But  prudent  men  (academicians  are) 

Scarce  keep  them  in  the  cupboard 
next  the  prunes. 

And  so,  abandoned  to  a  bitter  mirth, 

I  loitered  to  my  inn.  O  world,  O 
world, 

O  jurists,  rhymers,  dreamers,  what 
you  please, 

"We  play  a  weary  game  of  hide-and- 
seek  ! 

We  shape  a  figure  of  our  fantasy, 

Call  nothing  something,  and  run  after 
it 

And  lose  it,  lose  ourselves,  too,  in  the 
search. 

Till  clash  against  us  comes  a  some- 
body 

Who  also  has  lost  something  and  is 
lost, — 

Philosopher  against  philanthropist, 

Academician  against  poet,  man 


Against  woman,    against    the    living 

the  dead  — 
Tlien  home,  with  a  bad  headache  and 

worse  jest. 

To  change  the  water  for  my  helio- 
tropes 
And    yellow  roses.     Paris  has  such 

flowers. 
But  England  also.     'Twas   a  yellow 

rose. 
By  that  south   window  of  the   little 

house, 
My  cousin  Romney  gathered  with  his 

hand 
On  all  my  birthdays  for  me,  save  the 

last ; 
And  then  I  shook  the  tree  too  rough, 

too  rough. 
For  roses  to  stay  after. 

Now,  my  maps. 
I  must  not  linger  here  from  Italy 
Till  the  last  nightingale  is  tired  of 

song. 
And   the  last  firefly  dies  off  in  the 

maize. 
My  soul's  in  haste  to  leap  into  the 

sun. 
And  scorch  and  seethe  itself  to  a  finer 

mood. 
Which  here  in  this  chill  north  is  apt 

to  stand 
Too  stifliy  in  former  moulds. 

That  face  persists. 
It  floats  up,  it  turns  over  in  my  mind 
As  like  to  Marian  as  one  dead  is  like 
The    same    alive.      In    very  deed    a 

face. 
And  not  a  fancy,  though  it  vanished 

so  : 
The  small  fair  face  between  the  darks 

of  hair 
I  used  to  liken,  when  I  saw  her  first. 
To  a  point  of  moonlit  water  down  a 

well ; 
The  low  brow,  the  frank  space  be- 
tween the  eyes. 
Which  always  had  the  brown  pathetic 

look 
Of  a  dumb  creature,  who  had  been 

beaten  once. 
And  never  since  was  easy  with  the 

world. 
Ah,  ah  !  now  I  remember  perfectly 
Those    eyes    to-day :    how  overlarge 

they  seemed  ! 
As  if  some  i^atient  passionate  despair 
(Like  a  coal  dropt  and  forgot  on  tap- 
estry, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Which  slowly  burns  a  widening  circle 

out) 
Had  burnt  them  larger,  larger.     And 

those  eyes, 
To-day,  I  do  remember,  saw  me  too, 
As  I  saw  them,  with  conscious  lids 

astrain 
In  recognition.     Now,  a  fantasy, 
A  simple  shade  or  image  of  the  brain, 
Is  merely  passive,  does  not  retroact. 
Is  seen,  but  sees  not. 

'Twas  a  real  face, 
Perhaps  a  real  Marian. 

Which  being  so, 
I  ought  to  write  to  Romney,  "  Mari- 
an's here  : 
Be  comforted  for  Marian." 

My  pen  fell  ; 
My  hands  struck  sharp  together,  as 

hands  do 
Which  hold  at  nothing.    Can  I  write 

to  him 
A  half-truth  ?    can  I  keep  my  own 

soul  blind 
To    the    other    half  .  .  .  the   worse  ? 

What  are  our  souls. 
If   still,   to  run   on  straight  a  sober 

pace, 
Nor  start    at    every   pebble  or  dead 

leaf, 
They  must  wear  blinkers,  ignore  facts, 

suppress 
Six-tenths  of  the  road  ?    Confront  the 

truth,  my  soul ! 
And,  oh  !  as  truly  as  that  was  Mari- 
an's face, 
The  arms  of  that  same  Marian  clasped 

a  thing 
.  .  .  Not    hid    so    well    beneath    the 

scanty  shawl, 
I  cannot  name  it  now  for  what  it  was. 

A  child.  Small  business  has  a  cast- 
away 

Like  Marian,  with  that  crown  of  pros- 
perous wives. 

At  which  the  gentlest  she  grows  ar- 
rogant. 

And  says,  "My  child."  Who  finds 
an  emerald  ring 

On  a  beggar's  middle  finger,  and  re- 
quires 

More  testimony  to  convict  a  thief  ? 

A  child's  too  costly  for  so  mere  a 
wretch  : 

She  filched  it  somewhere ;  and  it 
means  with  her. 

Instead  of  honor,  blessing,  merely 
shame. 


I    cannot  write    to  Romney,   "  Here 

she  is, 
Here's  Marian  found  !    I'll  set  you  on 

her  track. 
I  saw  her  here  in  Paris,  .  .  .  and  her 

child. 
She   put  away  your  love  two  years 

ago. 
But,  plainly,  not  to  starve.     You  suf- 
fered then; 
And  now  that  you've  forgot  her  ut- 
terly, 
As  any  last  year's  annual,  in  whose 

place 
You've    planted    a    thick    flowering 

evergreen, 
I  choose,   being  kind,   to   write  and 

tell  you  this 
To  make  you  wholly  easy,  —  she's  not 

dead. 
But  only  .  .  .  damned." 

Stop  there  :  I  go  too  fast ; 
I'm  cruel,  like  the  rest,  —  in  haste  to 

take 
The  first  stir  in  the  arras  for  a  rat. 
And  set  my  barking,  biting  thoughts 

upon't. 
—  A  child!   what  then?    Suppose  a 

neighbor's  sick, 
And  asked  her,   "Marian,  carry  out 

my  child 
In   this  spring  air,"  —  I   punish   her 

for  that  ? 
Or  say,  the  child    should    hold    her 

round  the  neck 
For  good  child  reasons,  that  he  liked 

it  so, 
And  would  not  leave  her, — she  had 

winning  ways,  — 
I  brand  her,  therefore,  that  she  took 

the  child  ? 
Not  so. 

I  will  not  write  to  Romney  Leigh, 
For  now  he's  happy,  and  she   may, 

indeed, 
Be  guilty,  and  the  knowledge  of  hei' 

fault 
Would  draggle  his  smooth  time.    But 

I,  whose  days 
Are  not  so  fine  tifiey  cannot  bear  the 

rain. 
And  who,  moreover,  having  seen  her 

face. 
Must  see  it  again  .  .  .  icill  see  it,  by 

my  hopes 
Of  one  day  seeing  heaven  too.    The 

police 
Shall    track    her,   hound   her,   ferret 

their  own  soil: 


I 


V»V--- 


■^T' 


A  '-•^ 


J^n^Tii     ^W 


"  Marian!     I  find  you.     Shall  I  let  you  go?" —  Page  107. 


or 


Sir 


'<L!IPR 


NlAv 


AURORA  LETGTT. 


107 


We'll  dig  this  Paris  to  its  catacombs 
But  certainly  we'll  find  her,  have  her 

out, 
And  save  her,  if  she  will  or  will  not, 

child 
Or  no  child,  — if  a  child,  then  one  to 

save  ! 

The  long  weeks  passed  on  without 

consequence. 
As  easy  find  a  footstep  on  the  sand 
The  morning  after  spring-tide,  as  the 

trace 
Of  Marian's  feet  between  the  inces- 
sant surfs 
Of    this    live  flood.    'She    may  have 

moved  this  way; 
But  so  the  star-tish  does,  and  crosses 

out 
Tlie  dent    of    her  small    shoe.    The 

foiled  police 
Renounced  me.     "  Could  they  find  a 

girl  and  child. 
No    other  signalment    but    girl    and 

child  ? 
No  data  shown  but  noticeable  eyes. 
And  hair  in  masses,  low  upon  the  brow. 
As  if    it  were   an    iron   crown,   and 

pressed  ? 
Friends  heighten,  and  suppose  they 

specify: 
"Why,  girls  with  hair  and  eyes  are 

everywhere 
In  Paris;  they  had  turned  me  up  in 

vain, 
No  Marian  Erie  indeed,  but  certainly 
Mathildes,     Justines,     Victoires  .  .  , 

or,  if  I  sought 
The  English,  Betsies,  Saras,   by  the 

score. 
They  might  as  well  go  out  into  the 

fields 
To  find  a  speckled  bean  that's  some- 
how specked, 
And  somewhere  in  the  pod."     They 

left  me  so. 
Shall  I  leave  Marian  ?  have  I  dreamed 

a  dream  ? 

—  I  thank  God  I  have  found  her  !    I 
must  sav 

"Thank   God"    for   finding   her,  al- 
though 'tis  true 

I  find  the  world  more  sad  and  wicked 
for't. 

But  she  — 

I'll  write  about  her  presently. 

My  hand's  a-tremble,  as   I  had  just 
caught  up 


My  heart  to  write  with  in  the  place  of 

it. 
At  least  you'd  take  these  letters  to  be 

writ 
At  sea,  in  storm  !  —  wait  now  .  .  . 

A  simple  chance 
Did  all.    I  could  not  sleep  last  night, 

and,  tired 
Of  turning  on  my  pillow  and  harder 

thoughts, 
Went  out  at  early  morning,  when  the 

air 
Is    delicate    with    some    last    starry 

touch. 
To  wander  through  the  market-place 

of  flowers 
(The   prettiest  haunt   in   Paris),  and 

make  sure 
At  worst  that  there  were  roses  in  the 

world. 
So  wandering,  musing,  with  the  art- 
ist's eye. 
That    keeps    the    shade-side    of    the 

thing  it  loves. 
Half-absent,   whole  observing,  while 

the  crowd 
Of  young  vivacious  and  black-braided 

heads 
Dipped,  qviick  as  finches  in  a  blos- 
somed tree. 
Among  the  nosegays,  cheapening  this 

and  that 
In  such  a  cheerful  twitter  of  rapid 

speech, — 
My  heart  leapt  in  me,  startled  by  a 

voice 
That     slowly,     faintly,     with     long 

breaths  that  marked 
The  interval  between  the  wish  and 

word, 
Inquired      in      stranger's      French, 

"  Would  that  be  much. 
That  branch  of  flowering  mountain- 

gorse  ?  "  —  "So  much  ? 
Too  much  for  me,  then  !  "    turning 

the  face  round 
So  close  upon  me  that  I  felt  the  sigh 
It  turned  with. 
"  Marian,  Marian  !  "  —  face  to  face  — 
"  Marian  !  I  find  you.    Shall  I  let  you 

go?" 
I  held  her  two  slight  wrists  with  botli 

my  hands; 
"  Ah,  Marian,  Marian,  can  I  let  von 

go?" 
She  fluttered  from  me  like  a  cycla- 
men 
As  white,  which,  taken  in  a  sudden 

wind. 


I 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Beats  on  against  the  palisade.     "  Let 
pass," 

She  said  at   last.     "  I    will    not,"   I 
replied: 

"  I  lost  my  sister  Marian  many  days, 

And   sought   her   ever   in   my   walks 
and  prayers, 

And  now  I  find  her  ,  .  .  do  we  throw 
away 

The  bread  we  worked  and  prayed  for, 
—  crumble  it 

And   drop   it  ...  to   do   even   so  by 
thee 

Whom  still  I've  hungered  after  more 
than  bread, 

My  sister  Marian  ?    Can  I  hurt  thee, 
dear  V 

Then  why  distrust  me  ?    Never  trem- 
ble so. 

Come  with   me  rather,   where  we'll 
talk  and  live. 

And  none  shall  vex  us.     I've  a  home 
for  you 

And  me,  and  no  one  else  "... 

She  shook  her  head. 

"  A  home  for  you  and  me  and  no  one 
else 

111  suits  one  of  us:  I  prefer  to  such 

A  roof  of  grass  on  which  a  flower 
might  spring, 

Less  costly  to  me  than  the  cheapest 
here ; 

And  yet  I  could  not  at  this  hour  af- 
ford 

A  like  home  even.    That  you  offer 
yours, 

I  thank  you.     You  are  good  as  heav- 
en itself  — 

As  good  as  one  I  knew  before  .  .  . 
Farewell  !" 

I   loosed  her  hands.     "  In  his   name 
no  farewell ! " 

(She  stood  as  if  I  held  her.)    "For 
his  sake. 

For    his    sake,  —  Romney's !    by    the 
good  he  meant. 

Ay,  always  !   by  the  love  he  pressed 
for  once, 

And  by  the  grief,  reproach,  abandon- 
ment. 

He  took  in  change  "... 

"  He,  Romnej' !  who  grieved  libn  ? 

AVho  had  the  heart  for't  ?  what  re- 
proach touched  him  ? 

Be  merciful  —  speak  quickly." 

"  Therefore  come," 

I     answered    with     authority.      "I 
think 


We  dare  to  speak  such  things,  and 

name  such  names. 
In  the  open  squares  of  Paris." 

Not  a  word 
She  said, but  in  a  gentle,  humbled  way 
(As  one  who  had  forgot    herself    in 

grief) 
Turned  round,  and  followed  closely 

where  I  went. 
As  if  I  led  her  by  a  narrow  plank 
Across    devouring    waters,    step    by 

step; 
And  so  in  silence  we  walked  on  a 

mile. 

And  then  she  stopped:  her  face  was 

white  as  wax. 
"  We  go  mucli  farther  ?  " 

"  You  are  ill,"  I  asked, 
"Or  tired?" 

She  looked  the  whiter  for  her  smile. 
"There's  one    at    home,"   she    said, 

"  has  need  of  me 
By  this  time;  and  I  must  not  let  him 

wait." 

"  Not  even,"   I  asked,   "  to  hear  of 
Romney  Leigh  ?  " 

"  Not  even,"   she  said,  "  to  hear  of 
Mister  Leigh." 

"  In   that  case,"   I  resumed,   "I  go 

with  you, 
And  we  can  talk  the  same  thing  there 

as  here. 
None  waits  for  me:  I  haA-e  my  day  to 

spend." 

Her  lips  moved  in  a  spasm  without  a 

sound; 
But  then  she  spoke.     "  It  shall  be  as 

you  please. 
And  better  so —  'tis  shorter  seen  than 

told; 
And,   though   you  will    not  find   me 

worth  your  pains. 
That,  even,  may  be  worth  some  pains 

to  know 
For  one  as  good  as  you  are." 

Then  she  led 
The   way  ;    and  I,   as    by  a  narrow 

plank 
Across    devouring  waters,    followed 

her, 
Stepping  by  her  footsteps,  breathing 

by  her  breath. 
And  holding  her  with  eyes  that  would 

not  slip; 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


109 


And  so,  without  a  word,  we  walked  a 

mile, 
And  so  another  mile,  without  a  word. 

Until  the  peopled  streets  being  all  dis- 
missed, 
House  rows  and  groups  all  scattered 

like  a  flock, 
The  market-gardens   thickened,  and 

the  long 
"White  walls  beyond,  like  spiders'  out- 
side threads, 
Stretched,  feeling  blindly  toward  the 

country-fields 
Through    half-built    habitations  and 

half-dug 
Foundations,  —  intervals  of  trenchant 

chalk 
That  bit   betwixt  the  grassy  uneven 

turfs 
Where    goats    (vine-tendrils    trailing 

from  their  mouths) 
Stood  ]3erched  on  edges  of  the  cellar- 
age 
Which  should  be,  staring  as  about  to 

leajj 
To  find  their  coming  Bacchus.    All 

the  place 
Seemed    less    a    cultivation    than    a 

waste. 
Men  work  here,  only,  —  scarce  begin 

to  live: 
All's  sad,  the  country  struggling  with 

the  town. 
Like  an  untamed  hawk  upon  a  strong 

man's  fist, 
That  beats  its  wings,  and  tries  to  get 

away. 
And  cannot    choose    be   satisfied  so 

soon 
To  hoji  through  court-yards  with  its 

right  foot  tied, 
The  vintage  plains  and  pastoral  hills 

in  sight. 

We  stopped  beside  a  house  too  high 

and  slim 
To  stand  there  by  itself,  but  waiting 

till 
Five  others,  two  on  this  side,  three  on 

that. 
Should  grow  up  from  the  sullen  sec- 
ond floor 
They  pause  at  now,  to  build  it  to  a 

row. 
The  upper  windows  partly  were  un- 

glazed 
Meantime,  —  a  meagre,  unripe  house: 

a  line 


Of  rigid  poplars  elbowed  it  behind ; 
And  just  in  front,  beyond  the  lime 

and  bricks 
That  wronged  the  grass  between  it 

and  the  road, 
A  great  acacia  with  its  slender  trunk. 
And     overpoise     of      multitudinous 

leaves, 
(In  which  a  hundred  fields  might  spill 

their  dew 
And  intense  verdure,  yet  find  room 

enough) 
Stood  reconciling  all  the  place  with 

green. 

I  followed    up    the    stair  upon    her 

step. 
She  hurried  upward,  shot    across  a 

face, 
A  woman's,  on  the  landing,  —  "  How 

now,  now  ! 
Is  no  one  to  have  holidays  but  you  ? 
You    said    an    hour,   and  stay  three 

hours,  I  think, 
And  Julie  waiting  for  your  betters 

here  ? 
Why,  if  he  had  waked,  he  might  have 

waked,  for  me." 
—  Just  murmuring  an  excusing  word, 

she  passed 
And  shut  the  rest  out  with  the  cham- 
ber-door. 
Myself  shut  in  beside  her. 

'Twas  a  room 
Scarce  larger  than  a  grave,  and  near 

as  bare,  — 
Two  stools,  a  pallet-bed.     I  saw  the 

room: 
A  mouse  could  find  no  sort  of  shelter 

in't. 
Much  less  a  greater  secret;  curtain- 
less, — 
The  window  fixed  you  with   its  tor- 
turing eye. 
Defying  you  to  take  a  step  apart. 
If,   peradventure,  you   would  hide  a 

thing. 
I  saw  the  whole  room,  I  and  Marian 

there 
Alone. 

Alone  ?    She  threw  her  bonnet  off, 
Then,  sighing  as  'twere  sighing  the 

last  time. 
Approached    the    bed,    and    drew    a 

shawl  away: 
You  could  not  peel  a  fruit  you  fear  to 

bruise 
More  calmly  and  more  carefully  than 

so, — 


110 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Nor  would  you  find  within,  a  rosier 

flushed 
Pomegranate  — 

There  he  lay  upon  his  hack, 
The    yearling    creature,    warm    and 

moist  with  life 
To  the  bottom  of  his  dimples,  —  to  the 

ends 
Of  the  lovely  tumbled  curls  about  his 

face; 
For  since  he  had  been  covered  over- 
much 
To  keep  him  from    the    light-glare, 

both  his  cheeks 
"Were  hot  and  scarlet  as  the  first  live 

rose 
The    shepherd's    heart-blood    ebbed 

away  into 
The  faster  for  his  love.     And    love 

was  here 
As  instant:  in  the  pretty  baby-mouth, 
Shut  close,  as  if  for  dreaming  that  it 

sucked ; 
The  little  naked  feet,  drawn  up  the 

Avay 
Of  nestled  birdlings;   every  thing  so 

soft 
And    tender,  —  to    the  tiny  holdfast 

hands'. 
Which,  closing  on  a  finger  into  sleep, 
Had  kept  the  mould  oft. 

While  we  stood  there  dumb; 
For  oh,  that  it  should  take  such  inno- 
cence 
To  iirove  just  guilt,  I  thought,  and 

stood  there  dumb,  — 
The  light  upon  his  eyelids  pricked 

them  wide. 
And  staring  out  at  us  with  all  their 

blue. 
As  half  perplexed  between  the  angel- 

liood 
He    had   been  away  to  visit  in  his 

sleep. 
And  our  most  mortal  presence,  grad- 
ually 
He  saw  his  mother's  face,  accepting  it 
In  change  for  heaven  itself  with  such 

a  smile 
As  might  have  well  been  learnt  there, 

never  moved. 
But  smiled  on  in  a  drowse  of  ecstasy, 
So  happy  (half  with  her,  and  half  with 

heaven) 
He  could  not  have  the  trouble  to  be 

stirred. 
But  smiled   and    lay  there.    Like  a 

rose,  I  said  ? 
As  red  and  still  indeed  as  any  rose, 


That  blows  in   all  the  silence  of  its 

leaves, 
Content,  in  blowing,  to  fulfil  its  life. 

She  leaned  above  him  (drinking  him 
as  wine) 

In  that  extremity  of  love  'twill  pass 

For  agony  or  rapture,  seeing  that  love 

Includes  the  whole  of  nature,  round- 
ing it 

To  love  ...  no  more,  since  more  can 
never  be 

Than  just  love.  Self-forgot,  cast  out 
of  self. 

And  drowning  in  the  transport  of  the 
sight, 

Her  whole  pale  passionate  face, 
mouth,  forehead,  eyes. 

One  gaze  she  stood  ;  then,  slowly  as 
he  smiled, 

She  smiled  too,  slowly,  smiling  un- 
aware. 

And  drawing  fr^m  his  countenance 
to  hers 

A  fainter  red,  as  if  she  watched  a 
flame. 

And  stood  in  it  aglow.  "  How  beau- 
tiful !  " 

Said  she. 

I  answered,  trying  to  be  cold. 

(Must  sin  have  compensations,  was 
my  thought, 

As  if  it  were  a  holy  thing  like  grief  ? 

And  is  a  woman  to  be  fooled  aside 

From  putting  vice  down,  Avith  that 
woman's  toy, 

A  baby?)  — "Ay!  the  child  is  well 
enough," 

I  answered.  "If  his  mother's  palms 
are  clean. 

They  need  be  glad,  of  course,  in  clasp- 
ing such  ; 

But,  if  not,  I  would  rather  lay  my 
hand. 

Were  I  she,  on  God's  brazen  altar- 
bars 

Red-hot  with  burning  sacrificial 
lambs, 

Than  touch  the  sacred  curls  of  such  a 
child." 

She  plunged  her  fingers  in  his  cluster- 
ing locks 

As  one  who  would  not  be  afraid  of 
fire  ; 

And  then,  with  indrawn  steady  utter- 
ance, said, 

"My  lamb,  my  lamb!  although, 
through  such  as  thou, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Ill 


The  most  unclean  got  courage,  and 

approached 
To  God,  once,  now  they  cannot,  even 

with  men. 
Find  grace  enough  for  pity  and  gentle 

words." 

"My Marian,"  I  made  answer,  grave 

and  sad, 
"  The  priest  who  stole  a  lamb  to  offer 

him 
Was  still  a  thief.    And  if  a  woman 

steals 
(Through  God's  own  barrier-hedges  of 

true  love, 
Which  fence  out  license  in  securing 

love) 
A  child  like  this,  that  smiles  so  in  her 

face, 
She  is  no  mother,  but  a  kidnapper. 
And  he's  a  dismal  orphan,  not  a  son. 
Whom  all  her  kisses  cannot  feed  so 

full 
He  will   not  miss    hereafter  a  pure 

home 
To    live    in,    a    pure   heart    to    lean 

against, 
A    pure    good    mother's    name    and 

memory' 
To  hope  by  when  the  world  grows 

thick  and  bad. 
And  he  feels  out  for  virtue." 

"Oh!"  she  smiled 
With  bitter  patience,  "the child  takes 

his  chance  ; 
Not  much  worse  off  in  being  father- 
less 
Than  I  was,  fathered.    He  will  say, 

belike, 
His  mother  was  the  saddest  creature 

born ; 
He'll  say  his  mother  lived  so  contrary 
To  joy,  that  even  the  kindest,  seeing 

her, 
Grew  sometimes  almost  cruel ;   he'll 

not  say 
She  flew  contrarious  in  the  face  of  God 
With  bat-wings  of  her  vices.    Stole 

my  child  I 
My  flower  of  earth,   my  only  flower 

on  earth. 
My  sweet,  my  beauty  !  "  .  .  .  Up  she 

snatched  the  child, 
And,  breaking  on  him  in  a  storm  of 

tears, 
Drew  out  her  long  sobs  from   their 

shivering  roots. 
Until    he    took    it  for    a   game,  and 

stretched 


His  feet,  and  flapped  his  eager  arms 
like  wings. 

And  crowed  and  gurgled  through  his 
infant  laugh. 

"  Mine,  mine  !  "  she  said.  "  I  have  as 
sure  a  right 

As  any  glad  proud  mother  in  the 
world. 

Who  sets  her  darling  down  to  cut  his 
teeth 

Upon  her  church-ring.  If  she  talks 
of  law, 

I  talk  of  law  :  I  claim  my  mother- 
dues 

By  law,  —  the  law  which  now  is  para- 
mount ; 

The  common  law,  by  which  the  poor 
and  weak 

Are  trodden  under  foot  by  vicious 
men. 

And  loathed  forever  after  by  the  good. 

Let  pass  !  I  did  not  fllch  :  I  found 
the  child." 

"You  found  him,  Marian  ?  " 

"  Ay,  I  found  him  where 
I  found  my  curse,  — in  the  gutter  with 

my  shame  ! 
What  have  you,  any  of  you,  to  say  to 

that. 
Who  all  are  happy,  and  sit  safe  and 

high, 
And  never  spoke  before  to  arraign 

my  right 
To    grief    itself?     What,    what,  .  .  . 

being  beaten  down 
By  hoofs  of  maddened   oxen  into  a 

ditch, 
Half-dead,  whole   mangled,   when  a 

girl  at  last 
Breathes,   sees  .  .  .  and  finds   there, 

bedded  in  her  flesh. 
Because    of    the    extremity    of    the 

shock, 
Some  coin  of  price  !  .  .  .  and  when  a 

good  man  comes 
(That's  God  !   the  best  men  are  not 

quite  as  good) 
And  says,  '  I  dropped  the  coin  there  : 

take  it,  you. 
And  keep  it,  it  shall  pay  you  for  the 

loss,'  — 
You  all  put  up  your  finger  — '  See  the 

thief ! 
Observe  what  precious  thing  she  has 

come  to  filch ! 
How  bad  those  girls  are  I '     Oh,  my 

flower,  my  jjet, 
I  dare  forget  I  have  you  in  my  arms, 


112 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


And    fly  off    to   be    angry  with    tlie 

world, 
And   fright  you,   hurt  you   with   my 

tempers,  till 
You  double  up  your  lip  ?     Why,  that 

indeed 
Is  bad  :  a  naughty  mother  !  " 

■'  You  mistake," 
I  interrupted.     "  If  I  loved  you  not, 
I  should    not,    Marian,   certainly  be 

here." 

"  Alas  !  "  she  said,  "  you  are  so  very 

good  ; 
And    yet    I   wish,  indeed,    you    had 

never  come 
To  make    me    sob   until    I   vex   the 

child. 
It  is  not  wholesome  for  these  pleasure- 

IDlats 
To  be  so  early  watered  by  our  brine. 
And  then  who  knows  ?  he  may  not 

like  me  now 
As  well,  perhaps,  as  ere  he  saw  me 

fret: 
One's  ugly  fretting.    He  has  eyes-  the 

same 
As  angels,  but  he  cannot  see  as  deep  ; 
And  so  I've  kejit  forever  in  his  sight 
A  sort  of  smile  to  please  him,  as  you 

place 
A  green  thing  from  the  garden  in  a 

cup 
To  make  believe  it  grows  there.   Look, 

my  sweet, 
My  cowslip-ball !  we've  done  with  that 

cross  face, 
And  here's  the  face  come  back  you 

used  to  like. 
Ah,  ah  !  he  laughs:  he  likes  me.    Ah  ! 

Miss  Leigh, 
You're  great  and  pure;  but  were  you 

purer  still,  — 
As  if  you  had  walked,  we'll  say  no 

otherwhere 
Thau  up  and  down  the  New  Jeriisiv 

lem, 
And  held  your  trailing  lutestring  up 

yourself 
From  brushing  the  twelve  stones,  for 

fear  of  some 
Small    speck    as    little  as  a  needle- 

j)rick, 
AVhite  stitched  on  white,  —  the  child 

would  keep  to  me. 
Would  choose  his  jjoor  lost  Marian, 

like  me  best. 
And,  thougli  you  stretched  your  arms, 

cry  back  and  cling, 


As  we  do  when  God  says  it's  time  to 

die 
And  bids  us  go  up  higher.     Leave  us, 

then : 
We  two  are  happy.     Does  he  push  me 

off? 
He's    satisfied    with    me,   as    I  with 

him." 

"So  soft  to  one,  so  hard  to  others! 

Nay," 
I  cried,  more  angry  that  she  melted 

me, 
"  We  make  henceforth  a  cushion  of 

our  faults 
To  sit  and  practise  easy  virtues  on  ? 
I  thought  a  child  was  given  to  sanc- 
tify 
A  woman, — set  her,  in  the  sight  of 

all 
The    clear-eyed    heavens,    a    chosen 

minister 
To  do  their  business,  and  lead  spirits  up 
The  difficult  blue  heights.     A  woman 

lives 
Not  bettered,  quickened  toward  the 

truth  and  good 
Through  being  a  mother  ?  .  .  .  Then 

she's  none,  although 
She  damps  her  baby's  cheeks  by  kiss- 
ing them. 
As  wt-  kill  roses." 

"  Kill !     O  Christ  !  "  she  said, 
And  turned  her  wild,  sad  face  from 

side  to  side 
With  most  despairing  wonder   in   it. 

"  What, 
What  have  you  in  your  souls  against 

me  then. 
All  of  vou?    Am  I  wicked,  do  you 

think  ? 
God  knows  me,  trusts  me  with  the 

child  —  but  you, 
You  think  me  really  wicked  ?  " 

"  Complaisant," 
I  answered  softly,  "  to  a  wrong  you've 

done, 
Because  of  certain  profits,  which  is 

wrong 
Beyond    the     first    wrong,    Marian. 

When  you  left 
The  pure  place  and  the  noble   heart 

to  take 
The  hand  of  a  seducer  "... 

"  Whom  ?  whose  hand  ? 
I  took  the  hand  of  "  .  .  . 

Springing  up  erect. 
And  lifting  up  the  child  at  full  arm's- 
length, 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


113 


I 


As  if  to  bear  him  like  an  oriflamme 
LTnconqiierable     to     armies     of     re- 
proach,— 
"By    him,''  she    said,   "my    chikl's 

head  and  its  curls, 
By  these  blue  eyes  no  woman  born 

could  dare 
A  perjury  on,  I  make   my  mother's 

oath, 
That  if  I  left  that  heart  to  ligliten  it, 
The  blood  of  mine  was  still,  except 

for  grief ! 
No  cleaner  maid  than  I  was  took  a 

step 
To  a  sadder  end,  —  no  matron-mother 

now 
Looks  backward  to  her  early  maiden- 
hood 
Through    chaster    pulses.      I    speak 

steadily; 
And  if  I  lie  so  .  .  .  if,  being  fouled  in 

will 
And  paltered  with  in  soul  by  devil's 

lust, 
I  dared  to  bid   this   angel  take  my 

part  .  .  . 
Would  God  sit  quiet,  let  us  think,  in 

heaven, 
Nor  strike  me  dumb  with  thunder  ? 

Yet  I  speak: 
He  clears  me  therefore.     "What,  '  se- 
duced '  's  your  word  ? 
Do  wolves  seduce  a  wandering  fawn 

in  France  ? 
Do  eagles,  who  have  pinched  a  lamb 

with  claws, 
Seduce  it  into  carrion  ?    So  with  me. 
I  was  not  ever,  as  you  say,  seduced. 
But  simply  m  ordered." 

"There  she  paused,  and  sighed. 
With  such  a  sigh  as  drops  from  agony 
To   exhaustion,  —  sighing  while    she 

let  the  babe 
Slide  down  upon  her  bosom  from  her 

arms. 
And    all    her  face's   light    fell    after 

him 
Like    a    torch    quenched    in    falling. 

Down  she  sank, 
And  sate  upon  the  bedside  with  the 

child. 

But  I,  convicted,  broken  utterlj'. 
With  woman's  passion   clung  about 

her  waist, 
And   kissed  her  hair  and  eyes,  —  "I 

have  been  wrong. 
Sweet    Marian"  .  .  .  (weeping    in    a 

tender^page), 


"Sweet,    holy    Marian!     And     now, 

Marian,  now, 
I'll  use  your  oath,  although  my  lips 

are  hard, 
And  by  the  child,  my  Marian,  by  the 

child, 
I    swear    his   mother  shall   be   inno- 
cent 
Before  my  conscience,  as  in  the  open 

Book 
Of  Him  who  reads  for  judgment.     In- 
nocent, 
My  sister  !     Let  the  night  be  ne'er  .so 

dark. 
The  moon  is  surely  somewhere  in  the 

sky: 
So    surely  is    your  wliiteness    to  be 

found 
Through  all  dark  facts.     But  pardon, 

pardon  me. 
And  smile  a  little,  Marian,  —  for  the 

child. 
If  not  for  me,  my  sister." 

The  poor  lip 
Just  motioned  for  tlie  smile,  and  let  it 

go; 
And   then,  with  scarce  a  stirring  of 

the  mouth. 
As  if  a  statue  spoke  that  could  not 

breathe. 
But  spoke  on  calm  between  its  marble 

lips,  — 
"  I'm  glad,  I'm  very  glad,  you  clear 

me  so. 
I  should   be   sorry   that   you   set   me 

down 
With   harlots,  or  with   even  a  better 

name 
Which  misbecomes  his  mother.     For 

the  rest, 
I  am  not  on  a  level  with  your  love. 
Nor  ever  was,   you  know,  but  now 

am  worse. 
Because  that  world  of  yours  has  dealt 

with  me 
As  when  the  hard  sea  bites  and  chews 

a  stone. 
And  changes  the  first  form  of  it.    I've 

marked 
A    shore    of    pebbles    bitten    to   one 

shape 
From  all  the  A'arious   life  of  madre- 
pores; 
And  so  that  little  stone   called  Mar- 
ian Erie, 
Picked  up  and  dropped  by  you   and 

another  friend, 
Was  ground  and  tortured  by  the  in- 

cessant  sea, 


i 


114 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


And  bruised  from  what  she  was, — 
changed  !  death's  a  change, 

And  she,  I  said,  was  murdered:  Mar- 
ian's dead. 

What  can  yon  do  with  people  when 
they  are  dead. 

But,  if  you  are  pious,  sing  a  liymn 
and  go, 

Or,  if  you  are  tender,  heave  a  sigh  and 

go, 
But    go    by  all    means,   and    jiermit 

the  grass 
To  keep  its  green  feud  up  'twixt  them 

and  you  ? 
Then  leave  me,  —  let  me  rest.    I'm 

dead,  I  say. 
And  if,  to  save  the  child  from  death 

as  well. 
The  mother  in  me  has  survived  the 

rest, 
Why,  that's  God's  miracle  you  must 

not  tax, 
I'm  not  less  dead  for  that:  I'm  noth- 
ing more 
Biit    just    a    mother.     Only    for    the 

child 
I'm  warm,  and  cold,  and  hungry,  atid 

afraid. 
And  smell  the  flowers  a  little,  and  see 

the  sun. 
And  speak  still,  and  am  silent, — just 

for  him! 
I  pray  you  therefore  to  mistake  me 

not. 
And  treat  me  haply  as  I  were  alive ; 
For,  though  you  ran  a  pin  into  my 

soul, 
I  think  it  would  not  hurt  nor  trouble 

me. 
Here's  proof,  dear  lady,  —  in  the  mar- 
ket-place 
But  now,  you  promised  me  to  say  a 

word 
About  ...  a  friend,  who  once,  long 

years  ago, 
Took  God's  place  toward  me,  when 

he  leans  and  loves, 
And  does  not  thunder  .  .  .  whom  at 

last  I  left. 
As  all  of  us  leave  God.    You  thought 

perhaps 
I  seemed  to  care  for  hearing  of  that 

friend  ? 
Now  judge  me  !    We  have  sate  here 

halt  an  hour 
And  talked  together  of  the  child  and 

me, 
And  I  not  asked  as  much  as  '  What's 
the  thing 


You  had  to  tell  me  of  the  friend  .  .  . 

the  friend  ? ' 
He's  sad,  I  think  you  said,  —  he's  sick 

perhaps  ? 
'Tis  nought  to  Marian  if  he's  sad  or 

sick. 
Another  would  have  crawled  beside 

your  foot, 
And  jirayed  your  words  out.     Why,  a 

beast,  a  dog, 
A  starved  cat,  if  he  had  fed  it  once 

with  milk. 
Would  show  less  hardness.    But  I'm 

dead,  you  see. 
And  that  explains  it." 

Poor,  poor  thing,  she  spoke 
And  shook  her  head,  as  white  and 

calm  as  frost 
On  days  too    cold    for    raining    any 

more. 
But  still  with  such  a  face,  so  much 

alive, 
I  could  not  choose  but  take  it  ou  my 

arm. 
And  stroke  the  placid  patience  of  its 

cheeks, 
Then  told  my  story  out,  of  Romney 

Leigh,  — 
How,  having    lost    her,   sought  her, 

missed  her  still. 
He,  broken-hearted  for  himself  and 

her. 
Had  drawn  the  curtains  of  the  world 

awhile 
As   if    he    had    done   with    morning. 

There  I  stopped; 
For  when  she  gasped,  and  pressed  me 

with  her  eyes, 
"  And  now  .  .  .  how  is  it  with  him  ? 

tell  me  now," 
I    felt    the  shame    of    compensated 

grief. 
And  chose  my  words  with  scruple  — 

slowly  stepped 
Upon  the  slippery  stones  set  here  and 

there 
Across  the  sliding  water.    "Certainly, 
As    evening    empties    morning    into 

night,       .  ,         , 

Another  mornmg  takes  the  evenmg 

up 
With    healthful,    providential    inter- 
change ; 
And     though    he    thought    still    of 

her"  — 

"  Yes,  she  knew, 
She  understood:   she  had  supposed, 

indeed. 
That  as  one  stops  a  hole^upon  a  flute, 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


115 


At  which    a    new    note    comes    and 

shapes  the  tune, 
Excluding  her  would  bring  a  worthier 

in,  •> 

And,  long  ere  this,  that  Lady  Walde- 

mar 
He  loved  so  "  .  .  . 

"  Loved  !  "  I  started  —  "  loved  her  so  ! 
Now  tell  me  "... 

"  I  will  tell  you,"  she  replied: 
"  But,  since  we're  taking  oaths,  you'll 

jiromise  first 
That  he  in  England,  he,  shall  never 

learn 
In  what  a  dreadful  trap  his  creature 

here, 
Round  whose  unworthy  neck  he  had 

meant  to  tie 
The  honorable  ribbon  of  his  name, 
Fell  unaware,  and  came  to  butchery : 
Because,  —  I  know  him,  —  as  he  takes 

to  heart 
The  grief  of  every  stranger,  he's  not 

like 
To  banish  mine  as  far  as  I  should 

choose 
In  wishing  him  most  happy.    Now  he 

leaves 
To  think  of  me,  perverse,  who  went 

my  way, 
Unkind,  and  left  him;  but  if  once  he 

knew  .  .  . 
Ah,  then,  the  sharp  nail  of  my  cruel 

wrong 
Would  fasten  me  forever  in  his  sight, 
Like  some  poor  curious  bird,  through 

each  spread  wing 
Nailed  high  uji  over  a  fierce  hunter's 

fire. 
To  spoil  the  dinner  of  all  tenderer 

folk 
Come  in  by  chance.    Nay,  since  j^our 

Marian's  dead. 
You  shall  not  hang  her  up,  but  dig  a 

hole. 
And    bury   her    in    silence;    ring  no 

bells." 

I  answered  gayly,  though  my  wiiole 

voice  wept, 
"  "We'll    ring    the    joy-bells,    not  the 

funeral-bells. 
Because  we  have  her  back,  dead  or 

alive." 

She  never  answered  that,  but  shook 

her  head; 
Then  low  and  calm,  as  one  who,  safe 

in  heaven, 


Shall  tell  a  story  of  his  lower  life, 
Unmoved  by  shame  or  anger,  so  she 

spoke. 
She  told  me  she  had  loved  upon  her 

knees. 
As   others   pray,   more   perfectly  ab- 
sorbed 
In  the  act  and  inspiration.     She  felt 

his 
For  just  his  uses,   not    her    own  at 

all. 
His  stool,   to  sit  on    or  put   up    his 

foot; 
His  cujj,  to  fill  with  wine  or  vinegar; 
Whichever  drink  might  please  him  at 

the  chance. 
For  that  should  please  her  always; 

let  him  write 
His   name  upon  her  ...  it    seemed 

natural : 
It  was  most  precious,  standing  on  his 

shelf. 
To   wait  until  he    chose    to    lift  his 

hand. 
Well,   w^ell, — I    saw  her    then,   and 

must  have  seen 
How  bright  her  life  went  floating  on 

her  love, 
Like  wicks  the  housewives  send  afloat 

on  oil 
Which    feeds  them  to  a  flame  that 

lasts  the  night. 

To  do  good  seemed  so  much  his  busi- 
ness. 

That  having  done  it  she  was  fain  to 
think 

Must  fill  up  his  capacity  for  joy. 

At  first  she  never  mooted  with  her- 
self 

If  he  was  happy,  since  he  made  her 
so; 

Or  if  he  loved  her,  being  so  much  be- 
loved. 

Who  thinks  of  asking  if  the  sun  is 
light. 

Observing  that  it  lightens  ?  who's  so 
bold, 

To  question  God  of  his  felicity  ? 

Still  less.  And  thus  she  took  for 
granted  first 

What,  first  of  all,  she  should  have  put 
to  i^roof , 

And  sinned  against  him  so,  but  only 
so. 

"  What  could  you  hope,"  she  said. 
"  of  such  as  she? 

You  take  a  kid  you  like,  and  turn  it 
out 


116 


A  U  HOE  A   LEIGH. 


In  some  fair  garden  :  though  the  crea- 
ture's fond 

And  gentle,  it  will  leap  upon  the 
beds, 

And  break  your  tulips,  bite  your  ten- 
der trees  : 

The  wonder  would  he  if  such  inno- 
cence 

Spoiled  less.  A  garden  is  no  place  for 
kids." 

And   by  degrees,   when  he  who  had 

chosen  her 
Brought  in  his  courteous  and  benig- 
nant friends 
To  spend  their  goodness  on  her,  which 

she  took 
So  very  gladly,  as  a  part  of  his,  — 
By  slow  degrees  it  broke  on  her  slow 

sense. 
That  she,  too,  in  that  Eden  of  delight 
Was  out  of  place,  and,  like  the  silly  kid. 
Still   did    most   mischief    where    she 

meant  most  love. 
A  thought  enough  to  make  a  woman 

mad, 
(No  beast  in  this  but  she  may  well  go 

mad) 
That  saying  "  I  am  thine  to  love  and 

use  " 
May  blow  the  plague  in  her  protest- 
ing breath 
To  the  very  man  for  whom  she  claims 

to  die  ; 
That,  cliTiging    round    his   neck,   she 

pulls  him  down 
And  drowns  liim  ;  and  that,  lavishing 

her  soul. 
She   hales  jierdition  on  him.      "  So, 

being  mad," 
Said  Marian  .  .  . 

"  Ah  !  who  stirred  such  thoughts," 
you  ask  ? 
"Whose  fault  it  was  that  she  should 

have  such  thoughts  ? 
None's  fault,  none's  fault.     The  light 

comes,  and  we  see  : 
But  if  it  were  not  truly  for  our  eyes. 
There  would  be  nothing  seen  for  all 

the  light : 
And  so  with  Marian.    If  she  saw  at 

last, 
The  sense  was  in  her  :  Lady  Walde- 

inar 
Had  spoken  all  in  vain  else." 

"  O  my  heart, 
O   prophet    in    my  heart !  "    I    cried 

aloud. 
"  Then  Lady  Waldemar  spoke  !  " 


"  Z>^■d  she  speak  ?  " 
Mused    Marian  softly,   "  or  did  she 

only  sign  ? 
Or    did    she  put    a    word  into    her 

face 
And  look,  and  so  impress  you  with 

the  word  ? 
Or  leave    it    in    the  foldings  of    her 

gown, 
Like    rosemary  smells    a    movement 

will  shake  out 
When    no    one's    conscious  ?      Who 

shall  say,  or  guess  ? 
One  thing  alone  was  certain, —  from 

the  day 
The  gracious  lady  paid  a  visit  first. 
She,    Marian,    saw    things    different, 

—  felt  distrust 
Of  all  that  sheltering  roof  of  circvmi- 

stance 
Her  hopes  were  building  into  with 

clay  nests  : 
Her  heart  was  restless,  pacing  up  and 

down. 
And  fluttering,  like  dumb  creatures 

before  storms, 
Not  knowing  wherefore  she  was  ill  at 

ease." 

"  And  still  the  lady  came,"  said  Mari- 
an Erie,  — 

"  Much  oftener  thanfte  knew  it,  Mister 
Leigh. 

She  bade  me  never  tell  him  she  had 
come, 

She  liked  to  love  me  better  than  he 
knew  : 

So  very  kind  was  Lady  Waldemar. 

And  every  time  she  brought  with  her 
more  light, 

And  every  Hght  made  sorrow  clearer 
.  .  .  Well, 

Ah,  well !  we  cannot  give  her  blame 
for  that : 

'Twould  be  the  same  thing  if  an  angel 
came, 

Whose  right  should  prove  our  wrong. 
And  every  time 

The  ladv  came  she  looked  more  beau- 
tiful. 

And  spoke  more  like  a  flute  among 
green  trees, 

Until  at  last,  as  one,  w^hose  heart  be- 
ing sad 

On  hearing  lovely  music,  suddenly 

Dissolves  in  weeping,  I  brake  out  in 
tears 

Before  her,  asked  her  counsel,  — '  Had 
I  erred 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


117 


In  being  too  happy  ?  would  she  set 
me  straight  ? 

For  slie,  being  wise  and  good,  and 
born  above 

The  flats  I  had  never  climbed  from, 
could  jjerceive 

If  such  as  I  might  grow  upon  the  hills, 

And  whether  such  poor  herb  sufficed 
to  grow 

For  Romney  Leigh  to  break  his  fast 
iipon't ; 

Or  would  he  pine  on  such,  or  haply 
starve  ? ' 

She  wrapt  me  in  her  generous  arms  at 
once, 

And  let  me  dream  a  moment  how  it 
feels 

To  have  a  real  mother,  like  some 
girls  ; 

But,  when  1  looked,  her  face  was 
younger  .  .  .  ay, 

Youth's  too  bright  not  to  be  a  little 
hard. 

And  beauty  keeps  itself  still  upper- 
most. 

That's  true  !  Though  Lady  Walde- 
mar  was  kind. 

She  hurt  me,  liurt,  as  if  the  morning- 
sun 

Should  smite  us  on  the  eyelids  when 
we  sleep. 

And  wake  us  up  with  headache.  Ay, 
and  soon 

Was  light  enough  to  make  my  heart 
ache  too. 

She  told  me  truths  I  asked  for, — 
'twas  my  fault,  — 

'  That  Romney  could  not  love  me,  if 
he  would. 

As  men  call  loving  :  there  are  bloods 
that  flow 

Together,  like  some  rivers,  and  not 
mix, 

Through  contraries  of  nature.  He, 
indeed, 

"Was  set  to  wed  me,  t<>  espouse  my 
class, 

Act  out  a  rash  opinion  ;  and,  once 
wed, 

So  just  a  man  and  gentle  could  not 
choose 

But  make  my  life  as  smooth  as  mar- 
riage-ring, 

Bespeak  me  mildly,  keep  me  a  cheer- 
ful house. 

With  servants,  brooches,  all  the  flow- 
ers I  liked. 

And  pretty  dresses,  silk  the  whole 
year  round  '  .  .  . 


At  which  I  stopped  her,  — '  This  for 
me.     And  now 

For  him  ?  '  She  hesitated,  —  truth 
grew  hard  ; 

She  owned  '  'Twas  plain  a  man  like 
Romney  Leigh 

Required  a  wife  more  level  to  him- 
self. 

If  (lay  by  day  he  had  to  bend  his 
height 

To  pick  up  sympathies,  opinions, 
thoughts, 

And  interchange  the  common  talk  of 
life, 

Which  helps  a  man  to  live,  as  well  as 
talk. 

His  days  were  heavily  taxed.  Who 
buys  a  staff 

To  fit  the  hand,  that  reaches  but  the 
knee? 

He'd  feel  it  Intter  to  be  forced  to  miss 

The  perfect  joy  of  married  suited 
pairs, 

AVho,  bursting  through  the  separating 
hedge 

Of  iiersonal  dues  with  that  sweet  eg- 
lantine 

Of  equal  love,  keep  saying,  "So  we 
think. 

It  strikes  ■uh,  that's  orir  fancy."'  — 
When  I  asked 

If  earnest  will,  devoted  love,  em- 
liloyed 

In  youth  like  mine,  would  fail  to 
raise  me  up, 

As  two  strong  arms  will  always  raise 
a  child 

To  a  fruit  hung  overhead,  she  sighed 
and  sighed  .  .  . 

'  That  could  not  be,'  she  feared.  '  You 
take  a  pink, 

You  dig  about  its  roots,  and  water  it. 

And  so  improve  it  to  a  garden-jiink, 

But  will  not  change  it  to  a  helio- 
trope: 

The  kind  remains.  And  then  the 
harder  truth,  — 

This  Romney  Leigh,  so  rasli  to  leap  a 
pale. 

So  bold  for  conscience,  quick  for  mar- 
tyrdom. 

Would  suffer  steadilj'  and  never 
flinch. 

But  suffer  surely  and  keenly,  when 
his  class 

Turned  shoulder  on  him  for  a  shame- 
ful match. 

And  set  him  up  as  ninepin  in  their 
talk 


118 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


To  Lowl  him  down  with  jestiugs.' 
There  she  iiaused, 

And  when  I  used  the  pause  in  doubt- 
ing that 

W'e  wronged  him,  after  all,  in  what 
we  feared  — 

'  Suppose  such  things  could  never 
touch  him  more 

In  his  high  conscience  (if  the  things 
should  he,) 

Than,  when  the  queen  sits  in  an  up- 
per room, 

The  horses  in  the  street  can  spatter 
her ! '  — 

A  moment,  hope  came;  but  the  lady 
closed 

That  door,  and  nicked  the  lock,  and 
shut  it  out, 

Observing  wisely,  that  '  the  tender 
heart 

Which  made  him  over-soft  to  a  lower 
class 

Would  scarcely  fail  to  make  him  sen- 
sitive 

To  a  higher,  —  hoAV  they  thought,  and 
what  they  felt.' 

"Alas,  alas!"  said  Marian,  rocking 

slow 
The  pretty  baby  who  was  near  asleep, 
The  eyelids  creejiing  over  the  blue 

balls,  — 
"  She  made  it  clear,  too  clear:  I  saw 

the  whole. 
And  yet  who  knows  if  I  had  seen  my 

way 
Straight  out  of  it  by  looking,  though 

'twas  clear. 
Unless  the  generous  lady,  'ware  of 

this, 
Had  set  her  own  house  all  a-fire  for  me 
To  light  me  forwards  ?    Leaning  on 

my  face 
Her  heavy  agate  eyes,  which  crushed 

my  will. 
She  told  me  tenderly,  (as  when  men 

come 
To  a  bedside  to  tell  people  they  must 

die) 
'She    knew   of    knowledge,  —  ay,   of 

knowledge  knew, 
That  Romney  Leigh  had  loved    her 

formerly. 
And  she  loved  him,  she  might  say, 

now  the  chance 
Was  past.     But  that,   of    course,  he 

never  guessed. 
For  something  came  between  them,  — 

something  thin 


As    a   cobweb,  catching  every  fly  of 

doubt 
To  hold  it  buzzing  at  the  window- 

liane. 
And  help  to  dim  the  daylight.    Ah, 

man's  pride 
Or    woman's,. —  which    is     greatest  ? 

most  averse 
To  brushing  cobwebs  ?    Well,  but  she 

and  he 
Remained  fast  friends:  it  seemed  not 

more  than  so, 
Because  he  had  bound  his  hands,  and 

could  not  stir. 
An  honorable  man,  if  somewhat  rash; 
And    she  —  not    even    for    Romney 

would  she  spill 
A  blot,  as  little  even  as  a  tear  .  .  . 
Upon  his  marriage-contract,  —  not  to 

gain 
A  better  joy  for  two  than  came   by 

that ; 
For,    though    I    stood    between    her 

heart  and  heaven. 
She  loved  me  wholly.'  " 

Did  I  laugh ,  or  curse  ? 
I  think  I  sat  there    silent,    hearing 

all,  .  ^ 

Ay,  hearing  double,  — Marian's  tale, 

at  once, 
And    Romney's    marriage-vow,  "I'll 

keep  to  THEE," 
Which    means    that  woman-serpent. 

Is  it  time 
For  church  now  ? 

"  Lady  Waldemar  spoke  more," 
Continued  Marian;  "  but  as  when  a 

soul 
Will  pass  out  through  the  sweetness 

of  a  song 
Beyond  it,  voyaging  the  uphill  road, 
Even    so    mine  wandered    from  the 

things  I  heard 
To  those  I  suffered.    It  was  afterward 
I  shaped  the  resolution  to  the  act. 
For  many  hours   we  talked.    What 

need  to  talk  ? 
The    fate    was    clear    and    close;    it 

touched  my  eyes; 
But  still  the  generous  lady  tried  to 

keep 
The  case  afloat,  and  would  not  let  it 

go, 
And  argued,  struggled  upon  Marian's 

side. 
Which  was  not  Romney's,  though  she 

little  knew 
What  ugly  monster  would  take  up 

the  end, — 


II 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


119 


What     griping     death     within     the 

drowning  death 
"Was  ready  to  complete  mv  sum  of 

death." 

I  thought, — Perhaps  he's  sliding  now 
the  ring 

Upon  that  woman's  finger  .  .  . 

She  went  on: 

"  The  lady,  failing  to  prevail  her  way, 

Upgather'ed    my    torn    wishes     from 
the  ground, 

And  pieced  them  with  her  strong  be- 
nevolence; 

And    as  I  thought  I  could  breathe 
freer  air 

Away  from  England,  going  without 
pause, 

Without  farewell,  just  breaking  with 
a  jerk 

The    blossomed    offshoot     from '  my 
thorny  life. 

She  promised  kindly  to  i')rovide  the 
means. 

With  instant  passage  to  the  colonies 

And  full  protection,  '  would  commit 
me  straight 

To  one  who  had  once  been  her  wait- 
ing-maid. 

And  had  the  customs  of  the  world, 
intent 

On  changing  England  for  Australia 

Herself,  to  carry  out  her  fortune  so.' 

For  which  I  thanked  the  Lady  Wal- 
demar. 

As  men  upon  their  death-beds  thank 
last  friends 

Who  lay  the  pillow  straight:  it  is  not 
much. 

And  yet  'tis  all  of  which  they  are  ca- 
pable, — 

This  lying  smoothly  in  a  bed  to  die. 

And   so,    'twas  fixed;    and  so,  from 
day  to  day. 

The  woman  named  came  in  to  visit 
me." 

Just  then  the  girl  stopped  speaking, 

sate'erect. 
And  stared  at  me  as  if  I  had  been  a 

ghost, 
(Perhaps  I  looked  as  white   as  any 

ghost) 
With  large-eyed  horror.     "  Does  God 

make,"  she  said, 
"  All  sorts  of  creatures  really,  do  vou 

think  ? 
Or  is  it  that  the  Devil  slavers  them 
So  excellently,  that  we  come  to  doubt 


Who's  stronger,  —  he  who  makes,  or 

he  who  mars  ? 
I  never  liked-  the   woman's  face,  or 

voice, 
Or  ways:  it  made  me  blush  to  look  at 

her; 
It  made  me  tremble  if  she  touched  my 

hand; 
And  when  she  spoke  a  fondling  word, 

I  shrank 
As  if  one  hated  me  who  had  power 

to  hurt; 
And,  every  time  she  came,  my  veins 

ran  cold. 
As   somebody  were   walking  on   my 

grave. 
At  last  I  spoke  to  Lady  Waldemar: 
'  Could  such  a  one  be  good  to  trust  ? ' 

I  asked. 
Whereat  the  lady  stroked  my  cheek, 

and  laughed 
Her  silver  laugh  (one  must  be  born 

to  laugh 
To  put  such  music  in  it),  —  'Foolish 

girl, 
Your  scattered  wits  are  gathering  wool 

beyond 
The  sheep-walk  reaches  ! — leave  the 

thing  to  me.' 
And  therefore,  half  in  trust,  and  half 

in  scorn 
That  I  had  heart  still  for  another  fear 
In  such  a  safe  despair,  I  left  the  thing. 

"  The  rest  is  short.    I  was  obedient: 
I  wrote  my  letter  which  delivered  him 
From  Marian  to  his  own  prosperities, 
And  followed  that  bad  guide.     The 

lady?  —  hush, 
I  never  blame  the  lady.    Ladies  who 
Sit    high,   however    willing    to    look 

down. 
Will  scarce  see  lower  than  their  dain- 
ty feet; 
And  Lady  Waldemar  saw  less  than  I, 
With  what  a  Devil's  daughter  I  went 

forth 
Along  the  swine's    road,  down    the 

precipice, 
In  such  a  curl  of  hell-foam  caught 

and  choked. 
No  shriek  of  soul  in  anguish  could 

pierce  through 
To  fetch  some  help.    They  say  there's 

help  in  heaven 
For  all  such  cries.    But  if  one  cries 

from  hell  .  .  . 
What  then?  —  the  heavens  are  deaf 

upon  that  side. 


120 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


"  A    woman  .  .  .  hear    nie,    let    me 

make  it  jilain  .  .  . 
A    woman  .  .  .  not    a    monster  .  .  . 

both  her  breasts 
Made  right  to  suckle  babes  .  .  .  she 

took  me  off 
A  woman  also,  young  and  ignorant, 
And   heavy   with   my  grief,  my  two 

poor  eyes 
Near  washed  away  with  weeping,  till 

the  trees. 
The  blessed  unaccustomed  trees  and 

fields 
Ran  either  side  the  train  like  stranger 

dogs 
Unworthy  of  any  notice,  —  took  me  off 
So  dull,  so  blind,  so  only  half  alive. 
Not  seeing  by  wliat  road,  nor  by  what 

ship, 
Nor  toward  what  place,  nor  to  what 

end  of  all. 
Men  carry  a  corpse  thus,  —  past  the 

doorway,  past 
The  garden-gate,  the  children's  play- 
ground, up 
The  green  lane,  —  then  they  leave  it 

in  the  pit. 
To  sleep  and  find  corrujrtion,  cheek 

to  cheek 
AVith  him  who  stinks  since  Friday. 

"  But  sujipose: 
To  go  down  with  one's  soul  into  the 

grave. 
To  go  down  half  dead,  half  alive,  I 

say. 
And   wake  up  with  corruption  .  .  . 

cheek  to  cheek 
With  him  who  stinks  since  Friday  ! 

There  it  is, 
And  that's  the  horror  oft,  Miss  Leigh. 

"You  feel? 
You  understand?  —  no,  do  not  look 

at  me. 
But   understand.     The    blank,   blind 

weary  way 
Which  led,  where'er  it  led,  away  at 

least; 
The  shifted  ship  ...  to  Sydney,  or  to 

France, 
Still  bound,  wherever  else,  to  another 

land; 
The  swooning  sickness  on  the  dismal 

sea. 
The    foreign     shore,    the     shameful 

house,  the  night. 
The  feeble  blood,  the  heavy-headed 

grief  .  .  . 
No    need    to   bring   their   damnable 

drugged  cup, 


And  yet  they  brought  it.     Hell's  so 

prodigal 
Of    Devil's  gifts,   hunts    liberally   in 

packs, 
Will   kill   no  poor  small   creature  of 

the  wilds 
But  fifty  red  wide  throats  must  smoke 

at  it. 
As  HIS  at  me  .  .  .  when  waking  up 

at  last  .  .  . 
I  told  you  that  I  waked  up  in  the 

grave. 

"  Enough  so  !  —  it  is  plain  enough  so. 

True, 
We  wretches  cannot  tell  out  all  our 

wrong 
Without    offence    to    decent    happy 

folk.  ^ 

I   know   that  we   must   scrupulously 

hint 
With    half-words,   delicate    reserves, 

the  thing 
Which   no   one   scrupled   we    should 

feel  in  full. 
Let  pass  the  rest,  then;   only  leave 

my  oath 
Upon  this  sleeping  child,  —  man's  vio^ 

lence. 
Not  man's  seduction,  made  me  what 

I  am, 
As  lost  as  ...  I  told  him  I  should  be 

lost. 
When  mothers  fail  us,  can  we   help 

ourselves  ? 
That's  fatal !    And  you  call  it  being 

lost. 
That  down  came  next  day's  noon,  and 

caught  me  there 
Half    gibbering  and   half    raving  on 

the  floor. 
And  wondering  what  had  happened 

up  in  heaven. 
That  suns  should  dare  to  shine  when 

God  himself 
Was  certainly  abolished. 

"  I  was  mad. 
How    many   weeks    I    know    not, — 

many  weeks. 
I  think  they  let  me  go  when  I  was 

mad: 
They  feared  my  eyes,  and  loosed  me, 

as  boys  might 
A  mad  dog  which  they  had  tortured. 

Up  and  down 
I   went,   by  road    and    village,   over 

tracts 
Of  open  foreign  country,  large   and 

strange. 


"  And  there  I  sate,  one  evening  by  the  road, 
1,  Marian  Erie."— Page  121. 


■<, 


of 


;  1 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


121 


Crossed    everywhere   by    long,    t'lin 

poplar-lines 
Like  fingers  of  some  ghastly  ske'  jton 

hand 
Through  sunlight  and  through  moon- 
light evermore 
Pushed  out  from  hell  itself  to  jiluck 

me  back, 
And  resolute  to  get  me,  slow  and  sure ; 
While  every  roadside  Christ  upon  his 

cross 
Hung    reddening   through    his    gory 

wounds  at  me. 
And  shook  his  nails  in  anger,  and 

came  down 
To  follow  a  mile  after,  wading  up 
The  low  vines  and  green  wheat,  cry- 
ing, "  Take  the  girl ! 
She's  none  of  mine  from  henceforth." 

Then  I  knew 
(But  this  is  somewhat  dimmer  than 

the  rest) 
The  charitable  peasants  gave  me  bread. 
And  leave  to  sleep    in    straw;    and 

twice  they  tied. 
At  parting,  Mary's  image  round  mj^ 

neck. 
How  heavy  it  seemed  !  —  as  heavy  as 

a  stone ; 
A  woman  has  been  strangled  with 

less  weight: 
I  threw  it  in  a  ditch  to  keep  it  clean, 
And  ease  my  breath  a  little,  when 

none  looked: 
I  did  not  need  such  safeguards :  brutal 

men 
Stopped  short,  Miss  Leigh,  in  insult, 

when  they  had  seen 
My  face,  —  I  must  have  had  an  awful 

look. 
And  so  I  lived:  the  weeks  passed  on, 

—  I  lived. 
'Twas  living  my  old  tramp-life  o'er 

again. 
But  this  time  in  a  dream,  and  hunted 

round 
By  some  prodigious  dream-fear  at  my 

back, 
Which  ended  yet:  my  brain  cleared 

presently; 
And  there  I  sate,  one  evening,  by  the 

road, 
I,  Marian  Erie,  myself,  alone,  undone, 
Facing  a  sunset  low  upon  the  flats 
As  if  it  were  the  finish  of  all  time. 
The  great  red  stone  upon  my  sepul- 
chre, 
Which  angels  were  too  weak  to  roll 

away. 


SEVENTH   BOOK. 

"  The   woman's    motive  ?    shall    we 

daub  ourselves 
With  finding  roots  for  nettles  ?   'tis 

soft  clay, 
And  easily  explored.      She  had  the 

means, 
The    moneys,   by  the    lady's    liberal 

grace, 
In  trust  for  that  Australian  scheme 

and  me, 
Which  so,  that  she  might  clutch  with 

both  her  hands, 
And  chink  to  her  naughty  uses  un- 
disturbed. 
She  served  me  (after  all  it  was  not 

strange : 
'Twas  only  what  my  mother  would 

have  done) 
A    motherly,    right    damnable    good 

turn. 

"  Well,     after.     There    are     nettles 

everywhere ; 
But  smooth  green  grasses  are  more 

common  still: 
The  blue  of  heaven  is  larger  than  the 

cloud. 
A  miller's  wife  at  Clichy  took  me  in. 
And  spent  her  pity  on  me,  —  made 

me  calm. 
And  merely  very  reasonably  sad. 
She  found  me   a  servant's  place  in 

Paris,  where 
I  tried  to  take  the  cast-off  life  again. 
And  stood  as  qiiiet  as  a  beaten  ass, 
Who,  having  fallen  through  overloads, 

stands  up 
To  let  them  charge  him  with  another 

pack. 

"  A  few  months,   so.    My    mistress, 

young  and  light, 
Was  easy  with  me,  less  for  kindness 

than 
Because    she    led,    herself,    an    easy 

time 
Betwixt  her  lover  and  her  looking. 

glass. 
Scarce  knowing  which  way  she  was 

praised  the  most. 
She  felt  so  pretty  and  so  pleased  all 

day, 
She  could  not  take  the  trouble  to  be 

cross. 
But  sometimes,  as  I  stooj^ed  to  tie  her 

shoe. 


r 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Wouid  tap  me  softly  with  her  slender 

foot, 
Still    restless  with    the    last    night's 

dancing  in't, 
And  say,  '  Fie,  pale-face  !     Are  you 

English  girls 
All  grave  and  silent  ?  mass-book  still, 

and  Lent  ? 
And  first-communion  pallor  on  your 

cheeks, 
Worn  past  the  time  for't  ?    Little  fool, 

be  gay  ! ' 
At  which  she  vanished,  like  a  fairy, 

through 
A  gap  of  silver  laughter. 

"  Came  an  hour 
When   all  went  otherwise.     She  did 

not  speak. 
But  clinched  her  brows,  and  clipped 

me  with  her  eyes 
As  if  a  viper  with  a  pair  of  tongs. 
Too  far  for  any  touch,  yet  near  enough 
To  view  the  writhing  creature,  —  then 

at  last, 
'  Stand  still  there,   in  the  holy  Vir- 
gin's name. 
Thou  Marian:    thou'rt  no   reputable 

girl. 
Although  sufificient  dull  for  twenty 

saints  ! 
I  think  thou    mock'st    me    and  my 

house,'  she  said; 
■'Confess  tbou'lt  be   a    mother  in   a 

month. 
Thou  mask  of  saintship.' 

"  Could  I  answer  her  ? 
The  light  broke  in  so.    It  meant  that, 

then,  that? 
I  had  not  thought  of  that,  in  all  my 

thoughts. 
Through  all  the  cold  numb  aching  of 

my  brow, 
Through  all  the  heaving  of  impatient 

life 
Which  threw  me   on  death  at  inter- 
vals: through  all 
The  upbreak  of  the  fountains  of  my 

heart 
The  rains  had  swelled  too  large.     It 

could  mean  that  ? 
Did  God  make  mothers  out  of  victims, 

then, 
And  set  such  pure  amens  to  hideous 

deeds  ? 
Why  not  ?    He   overblows    an    ugly 

grave 
With  violets  which  blossom   in   the 

spring. 
And  /  could  be  a  mother  in  a  mouth  ? 


I  hope  it  was  not  wicked  to  be  glad. 

I  lifted  up  my  voice  and  wept,  and 
laughed  — 

To  heaven,  not  her  —  until  it  tore  my 
throat. 

'  Confess,  confess  ! '     What  was  there 
to  confess, 

Except    man's    cruelty,    except    my 
wrong  ? 

Except  this  anguish,  or  this  ecstasy? 

This  shame  or  glory  ?    The  light  wo- 
man there 

Was  small  to  take  it  in:  an  acorn-cup 

Would  take  the  sea  in  sooner. 

"  '  Good  ! '  she  cried: 

'  Unmarried  and  a  mother,  and  she 
laughs ! 

These   unchaste  girls  are  always  im- 
pudent. 

Get  out,  intriguer  !     Leave  my  house, 
and  trot ! 

I  wonder  you  should  look  me  in  the 
face,. 

With  such  a  filthy  secret.' 

•'  Then  I  rolled 

My  scanty  bundle  up,  aud  went  my 
way. 

Washed  white  with  weeping,  shud- 
dering, head  and  foot, 

With  blind,  hysteric  passion,  stagger- 
ing forth 

Beyond  those  doors.     'Twas  natural, 
of  course, 

She  should  not  ask  me  where  I  meant 
to  sleep; 

I  might  sleep  well  beneath  the  heavy 
Seine, 

Like  others  of  my  sort :  the  bed  was 
laid 

For  us.     But  any  woman,  womanly. 

Had  thought  of  him  who  should  be  in 
a  month, 

The  sinless  babe  that  should  be  in  a 
month, 

Aud  if  by  chance  he  might  be  warmer 
housed 

Than  underneath  such  dreary  drip- 
ping eaves." 

I  broke  on  Marian  there.     "  Yet  she 

herself, 
A  wife,  I  think,  had  scandals  of  her 

own, 
A  lover  not  her  husband." 

•'  Ay,"  she  said: 
"  But  gold  and  meal  are  measured 

otherwise : 
I    learnt   so   much    at   school,"    said 

Marian  Erie. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


123 


"  O  crooked  world,"  I  cried,  "  ridicu- 
lous, 
If  not  so  lamentable  !     'Tis  the  way 
With  these  light  women  of  a  thrifty 

vice, 
My  Marian,  —  alwaj-^s  hard  upon  the 

rent 
In    any  sister's  virtue !    while    tliey 

keep 
Their  own  so  darned    and    patched 

with  perfidy. 
That,  though  a  rag  itself,  it  looks  as 

well 
Across  a  street,  in  balcony  or  coach, 
As  any  perfect  stuff  might.     For  my 

part, 
I'd  rather  take  the  wind-side  of  the 

stews 
Than  touch  such  women  with  my  fin- 
ger-end ! 
They  top  the  poor  street-walker  by 

their  lie. 
And  look  the  better  for  being  so  much 

worse : 
The  Devil's  most  devilish  when  re- 
spectable. 
But  you,  dear,  and  your  storv." 

"All  the  rest 
Is  here,"  she  said,  and  signed  upon 

the  child. 
"  I  found  a  mistress-seamstress  who 

was  kind, 
And  let  me  sew  in  peace  among  her 

girls. 
And  what  was  better  than  to  draw 

the  threads 
All  day  and  half  the  night  for  him 

and  him  ? 
And  so  I  lived  for  him,  and  so   he 

lives; 
And  so  I  know,  by  this  time,  God 

lives  too." 

She  smiled  beyond  the  sun,  and  ended 

so, 
And  all  my  soul  rose  up  to  take  her 

part 
Against  the  world's    successes,   vir- 
tues, fames. 
"  Come  with  me,  sweetest  sister,"  I 

returned, 
"  And  sit  within  my  house  and  do  me 

good 
From  henceforth,  thou  and  thine  !  ye 

are  my  own 
From  henceforth.    I  am  lonely  in  the 

world, 
And  thou  art  lonely,  and  the  child  is 

half 


An  orphan.  Come;  and  henceforth 
thou  and  I, 

Being  still  together,  will  not  miss  a 
friend. 

Nor  he  a  father,  since  two  mothers 
shall 

Make  that  up  to  him.  I  am  journey- 
ing south. 

And  in  my  Tuscan  home  I'll  find  a 
niche 

And  set  thee  there,  my  saint,  the 
child  and  thee, 

And  burn  the  lights  of  love  before 
thy  face. 

And  ever  at  thy  sweet  look  cross  my- 
self 

From  mixing  with  the  world's  pros- 
perities; 

That  so,  in  gravity  and  holy  calm. 

We  two  may  live  on  toward  the  truer 
life." 

She  looked  me  in  the  face  and  an- 
swered not. 
Nor  signed  she  was  unworthy,  nor 

gave  thanks, 
But  took  the  sleeping  child,  and  held 

it  out 
To  meet  my  kiss,  as  if  requiting  me 
And  trusting  me  at  once.    And  thus, 

at  once, 
I  carried  him  and  her  to  where  I  live: 
She's  there  now,  in  the  little  room, 

asleep, 
I  hear  the  soft  child-breathing  through 

the  door; 
And  all  three  of  us,  at  to-morrow's 

break, 
Pass  onward,  homeward,  to  our  Italy. 

0  Romney  Leigh  !  I  have  your  debts 

to  pay, 

And  I'll  be  just  and  pay  them. 

But  yourself ! 

To  pay  your  debts  is  scarcely  difficult; 

To  buy  your  life  is  nearly  impossi- 
ble. 

Being  sold  away  to  Lamia.  My  head 
aches; 

1  cannot  see  my  road  along  this  dark; 
Nor  can  I  creep  and  grope,  as  fits  the 

dark. 

For  these  foot-catching  robes  of  wo- 
manhood : 

A  man  might  walk  a  little  .  .  .  but 
I !  —  He  loves 

The  Lamia-woman,  —  and  I  write  to 
him 

What  stojis  his  marriage,  and  destroys 
his  peace, 


! 


124 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Or  what  perhaps  shall  simply  trouble 
him, 

Until  she  only  need  to  touch  his 
sleeve 

"With  just  a  finger's  tremulous  white 
flame, 

Saying,  "  Ah,  Aurora  Leigh  !  a  pretty 
tale, 

A  very  pretty  poet !    I  can  guess 

The  motive," — then,  to  catch  his 
eyes  in  hers 

And  vow  she  does  not  wonder,  and 
they  two 

To  break  in  laughter,  as  the  sea  along 

A  melancholy  coast,  and  float  up 
higher. 

In  such  a  laugh,  their  fatal  weeds  of 
love  ! 

Ay,  fatal,  ay.  And  who  shall  answer 
me 

Fate  has  not  hurried  tides,  and  if  to- 
night 

My  letter  would  not  be  a  night  too 
late, 

An  arrow  shot  into  a  man  that's  dead. 

To  i^rove  a  vain  intention?  Would 
I  show 

The  new  wife  vile  to  make  the  hus- 
band mad  ? 

No,  Lamia  !  shut  the  shutters,  bar  the 
doors 

From  every  glimmer  on  thy  serpent- 
skin: 

I  will  not  let  thy  hideous  secret  out 

To  agonize  the  man  I  love  —  I  mean 

The  friend  I  love  ...  as  friends  love. 

It  is  strange. 

To-day,  while  Marian  told  her  story 
•like 

To  absorb  most  listeners,  how  I  lis- 
tened chief 

To  a  voice  not  hers,  nor  yet  that  ene- 
my's, 

Nor  God's  in  wrath  .  .  .  but  one  that 
mixed  with  mine 

Long  years  ago  among  the  garden- 
trees, 

And  said  to  me,  to  me  too,  "  Be  my 
wife, 

Aurora."  It  is  strange  with  what  a 
swell 

Of  yearning  passion,  as  a  snow  of 
ghosts 

Might  beat  against  the  impervious 
door  of  heaven, 

I  thought,  "Now,  if  I  had  been  a 
woman,  such 

As  God  made  women,  to  save  men 
by  love, 


By  just  my  love  I  might  have  saved 

this  man, 
And   made   a   nobler  poem  for  the 

world 
Than  all  I  have  failed  in."    But  I 

failed  besides 
In  this;  and  now  he's  lost  —  through 

me  alone  ! 
And,   by  my  only  fault,   his  empty 

house 
Sucks  in  at  this  same  hour  a  wind 

from  hell 
To  keep  his  hearth  cold,  make  his 

casements  creak 
Forever  to  the  tune  of  plague  and  sin — 
O   Romney,   O    my  Romney,   O    my 

friend ! 
My  cousin  and  friend  I    my  helper, 

when  I  would ! 
My  love,  that  might  be  !  mine  I 

Why,  how  one  weeps 
When  one's  too  weary  !    Were  a  wit- 
ness by. 
He'd  say  some  folly  .  .  .  that  I  loved 

the  man, 
Who     knows?  .  .  .  and     make     me 

laugh  again  for  scorn. 
At  strongest,  women  are  as  weak  in 

flesh. 
As  men,  at  weakest,  vilest,  are  in 

soul: 
So  hard  for  women  to  keep  pace  with 

men  ! 
As  well  give  up  at  once,  sit  down  at 

once, 
And  weep  as  I  do.    Tears,  tears  !  why 

we  weep  ? 
'Tis    worth    inquiry?  —  That    we've 

shamed  a  life. 
Or  lost  a  love,  or  missed  a  world,  per- 
haps ? 
By  no    means.     Simply    that    we've 

walked  too  far. 
Or  talked  too  much,  or  felt  the  wind 

i'  the  east; 
And  so  we  weeji,  as  if  both  body  and 

soul 
Broke  up  in  water  —  this  way. 

Poor  mixed  rags 
Forsooth  we're  made  of,  like  those 

other  dolls 
That  lean  with  pretty  faces  into  fairs. 
It  seems  as  if  I  had  a  man  in  me. 
Despising  such  a  woman. 

Yet,  indeed, 
To  see  a  wrong  or  suffering  moves  us 

all 
To  undo  it,  though  we  should  undo 

ourselves  ; 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


125 


Ay,  all  the  more  that  we  undo  our- 
selves : 

That's  womanly,  past  doubt,  and  not 
ill-moved. 

A  natural  movement,  therefore,  on  my 
part, 

To  fill  the  chair  up  of   ray  cousin's 
wife. 

And   save    him   from  a  Devil's  com- 
pany! 

We're    all    so,  —  made    so  :    'tis  our 
woman's  trade 

To  suffer  torment  for  another's  ease. 

The  world's  male  chivalry   has  jier- 
islied  out  ; 

But  women  are  knights-errant  to  the 
last  ; 

And    if    Cervantes   had    been   Shak- 
speare  too, 

He  had  made  his  Don  a  Donna. 

So  it  clears. 

And  so  we  rain  our  skies  blue. 

Put  away 

This  weakness.    If,  as  I  liave  just  now 
said, 

A  man's  within  me,  let  him  act  him- 
self. 

Ignoring  the  jioor  conscious  trouble 
of  blood 

That's  called  the  woman  merely.    I 
will  write 

Plain  words  to  England,  —  if  too  late, 
too  late  ; 

If  ill  accounted,  then  accounted  ill  : 

We'll  trust  the  heavens  with  some- 
thing. 

"  Dear  Lord  Howe, 

You'll  find  a  story  on  another  leaf 

Of  Marian  Erie,  —  what  noble  friend 
of  yours 

She  trusted  once,  through  what  flagi- 
tious means. 

To  what  disastrous  ends  :  the  story's 
true. 

I  found  her  wandering  on  the  Paris 
quays, 

A  babe  upon  her  breast,  — unnatural 

Unseasonable  outcast  on  such  snow, 

Unthawed  to  this  time.     I  will  tax  in 
this 

Your  friendship,  friend,  if  that  con- 
victed she 

Be  not  his  wife  yet,  to  denounce  the 
facts 

To  himself,  but  otherwise  to  let  them 
pass 

On  tiptoe  like  escaping  murderers. 

And  tell  my  cousin  merely  —  Marian 
lives. 


Is  found,  and  finds  her  home  with  such 

a  friend. 
Myself,  Aurora.    Which  good  news, 

'She's  found,' 
Will  help  to  make  him  merry  in  his 

love  : 
I  send  it,  tell  him,  for  my  marriage- 
gift, 
As    good    as    orange-water   for    the 

nerves, 
Or  perfumed  gloves  for  headache,  — 

though  aware 
That  he,  except  of  love,   is  scarcely 

sick  : 
I  mean  the  new  love  this  time  .  .  . 

since  last  year. 
Such  quick  forgetting  on  the  part  of 

men  ! 
Is  any  shrewder  trick  upon  the  cards 
To  enrich   them  ?    Pray  instruct  me 

how  'tis  done. 
First,  clubs  ;   and,  while  you  look  at 

clubs,  'tis  spades  ; 
That's  prodigy.    The  lightning  strikes 

a  man, 
And,  when  we  think  to  find  him  dead 

and  charred  .  .  . 
Why,  there  he  is  on  a  sudden  playing 

pipes 
Beneath     the     splintered     elm-tree  ! 

Crime  and  shame, 
And  all  their  hoggery,  trample  your 

smooth  world. 
Nor  leave  more  foot-marks  than  A\^o\- 

lo's  kine. 
Whose    hoofs    were    muffled    by  the 

thieving  god 
In  tamarisk-leaves  and  myrtle.    I'm 

so  sad. 
So  weary  and  sad  to-night,  I'm  some- 
what sour,  — 
Forgive  me.    To  be  blue  and  shrew 

at  once 
Exceeds  all  toleration  except  yours  ; 
But  yours,  I  know,  is  infinite.     Fare- 
well 1 
To-morrow  we  take  train  for  Italy. 
Speak  gently  of  me  to  your  gracious 

wife. 
As    one,   however  far,   shall    yet    be 

near 
In  loving  wishes  to  your  house." 

I  sign. 
And   now  I  loose  my  heart  upon   a 

page. 
This  — 

"  Lady  Waldemar,  I'm  very  glad 
I  never  liked  you  ;  which  you  kuew 

so  well 


126 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


You  spared  me,  in  your  turn,  to  like 

me  much. 
Your  liking  surely  had  done  worse  for 

me 
Than  has  your  loathing,  thougli   the 

last  appears 
Sufficiently  unscrupulous  to  hurt, 
And  not  afraid  of  judgment.      Now 

there's  space 
Between  our  faces,  I  stand  off,  as  if 
I    judged  a  stranger's    portrait,   and 

pronounced 
Indifferently  the  type  was  good  or  bad. 
What  matter  to  me  that  the  lines  are 

false  ? 
I  ask  you.     Did  I  ever  ink  my  lips 
By  drawing  your  name  through  them 

as  a  friend's  ? 
Or  touch  your  hands  as  lovers  do? 

Thank  God 
I  never  did  !    And  since  you're  proved 

so  vile, 
Ay,  vile,  I  say,  —  we'll  show  it  pres- 
ently,— 
I'm  not  obliged  to  nurse  my  friend  in 

you, 
Or  wash  out  my  own  blots  in  counting 

yours. 
Or    even    excuse    myself    to    honest 

souls 
Who  seek  to  press  my  lip,  or  clasp  my 

palm,  — 
'  Alas,  but  Lady Waldemar  came  first! ' 
'Tis  true,  by  this  time  you  may  near 

me  so 
That  you're  my  cousin's  wife.   You've 

gambled  deep 
As  Lucifer,  and  won  the  morning-star 
In  that  case  ;  and  the  noble  house  of 

Leigh 
Must  henceforth  with   Its  good   roof 

shelter  you. 
I  cannot  speak  and  burn  you  up  be- 
tween 
Those  rafters,  I  who  am  born  a  Leigh; 

nor  speak 
And  pierce  your  breast  through  Rom- 

ney's,  I  who  live 
His  friend  and  cousin  :  so  you're  safe. 

You  two 
Must  grow  together  like  the  tares  and 

wheat 
Till  God's  great  fire.     But  make  the 

best  of  time. 

"  And  hide  this  letter  :  let  it  speak  no 

more 
Than  T  shall,  how  you  tricked  poor 

Marian  Erie, 


And  set  her  own  love  digging  its  own 
grave 

Within  her  green  hope's  pretty  gar- 
den-ground,— 

Ay,  sent  her  forth  with  some  one  of 
your  sort 

To  a  wicked  house  in  France,  from 
which  she  fled 

With  curses  in  her  eyes  and  ears  and 
throat. 

Her  whole  soul  choked  with  curses, 
mad,  in  short. 

And  madly  scouring  up  and  down  for 
weeks 

The  foreign  hedgeless  country,  lone 
and  lost,  — 

So  innocent,  male  fiends  might  slink 
within 

Remote  hell-corners  seeing  her  so  de- 
filed. 

"But  you,  —  you  are  a  woman,  and 
more  bold. 

To  do  you  justice,  you'd  not  shrink  to 
face  .  .  . 

We'll  say,  the  unfledged  life  in  the 
other  room. 

Which,  treading  down  God's  corn, 
you  trod  in  sight 

Of  all  the  dogs  in  reach  of  all  the 
guns,  — 

Ay,  Marian's  babe,  her  poor  un- 
fathered child. 

Her  yearling  babe  !  —  you'd  face  him 
when  he  wakes 

And  opens  up  his  wonderful  blue 
eyes ; 

You'd  meet  them,  and  not  wink  per- 
haps, nor  fear 

God's  triumph  in  them  and  supreme 
revenge 

When  righting  his  creation's  balance- 
scale 

(You  pulled  as  low  as  Tophet)  to  the 
top 

Of  most  celestial  innocence.    For  me 

Who  am  not  as  bold,  I  own  those  in- 
fant eyes 

Have  set  me  praying. 

"  While  they  look  at  heaven. 

No  need  of  protestation  in  my  words 

Against  the  place  you've  made  them  ! 
let  them  look. 

They'll  do  your  business  with  the 
heavens,  be  sure  : 

I  spare  you  common  curses. 

"  Ponder  this; 

If  haply  you're  the  wife  of  Romney 
Leigh, 


I    ^m  I  ■  I  ^ 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


127 


(For  which  inheritance  bej'ond  your 

birth 
You   sold    that    poisonous    porridge 

called  your  soul) 
I  charge  you  be  his  faithful  and  true 

wife  ! 
Keep  warm  his  hearth,  and  clean  his 

board,  and,  when 
He  speaks,  be  quick  with  your  obedi- 
ence; 
Still  grind  your  paltry  wants  and  low 

desires 
To  dust   beneath    his   heel,  though, 

even  thus, 
The  ground  must  hurt  him:   it  was 

writ  of  old, 
'  Ye  shall  not  yoke  together  ox  and 

ass,' 
The   nobler    and   ignobler.    Ay;   but 

you 
Shall  do  your  part  as  well  as  such  ill 

things 
Can   do  aught  good.    You  shall  not 

vex  him,  —  mark, 
Y'ou  shall  not  vex  him,  jar  him  when 

he's  sad, 
Or  cross  him  when  he's  eager.    Un- 
derstand 
To  trick  him  with  apparent  sympa- 
thies, 
Isor  let  him  see  thee  in  the  face  too 

near, 
And  unlearn  thy  sweet  seeming.    Pay 

the  price 
Of  lies  bv  being  constrained  to  lie  on 

stili: 
'Tis  easy  for  thy  sort:  a  million  more 
"Will  scarcely  damn  thee  deeper. 

"  Doing  which 
Y^ou  are  very  safe  from  Marian  and 

myself: 
"We'll  breathe  as  softly  as  the  infant 

here, 
And  stir  no  dangerous  embers.     Fail 

a  point, 
And  show  our  Romney  wounded,  ill 

content, 
Tormented    in    his    home,    we    open 

mouth, 
And  such  a  noise  will  follow,  the  last 

trump's 
Will    scarcely  seem   more    dreadful, 

even  to  you ; 
i'ou'll  have  no  pipers  after:  Romney 

AVill 

(I  know  him)  push  you  forth  as  none 

of  his, 
All     other    men    declaring    it    well 

done; 


While  women,  even  the  worst,  your 

like,  will  draw 
Their  skirts  back,  not  to  brush  you  iii 

the  street: 
And  so  I  warn  you.    I'm  .  .  .  Aurora 

Leigh." 

The  letter  written,  I  felt  satisfied. 
The  ashes  smouldering  in  me  were 

thrown  out 
By  handfuls  from  me:  I  had  writ  my 

heart, 
And  wept  my  tears,   and  now  Avas 

cool  and  calm; 
And,  going  straightway  to  the  neigh- 

boring  room, 
I  lifted  up  the  curtains  of  the  bed 
Where  Marian  Erie  —  the  babe  upon 

her  arm, 
Both  faces  leaned  together  like  a  pair 
Of  folded  innocences  self-complete, 
Each  smiling  from  the  other  —  smiled 

and  slept. 
There  seemed  no  sin,  no  shame,  no 

wrath,  no  grief. 
I  felt  she  too  had  spoken  words  that 

night. 
But  softer  certainly,  and  said  to  God, 
Who  laughs  in  heaven  perhaps  that 

such  as  I 
Should   make  ado  for  such  as  she. 

"Defiled" 
I  wrote?  "defiled"  I  thought  her? 

Stoop, 
Stoop  lower,  Aurora  !  get  the  angels' 

leave 
To  creep   in  somewhere,  humbly  on 

your  knees, 
Within  this  round  of    sequestration 

white 
In   which    they  liave  wrapt    earth's 

foundlings,  heaven's  elect. 

The  next  day  we  took  train  to  Italy, 
And  fled  on  southward  in  the  roar  of 

steam. 
The  marriage-bells  of  Romney  must 

be  loud 
To  sound  so  clear  through  all.     I  was 

not  well. 
And  truly,  though  the  truth  is  like  a 

jest, 
I  could  not  choose  but  fancy,  half  the 

way, 
I  stood  alone  i'  the  belfry,  fifty  bells. 
Of  naked  iron,  mad  with  merriment, 
(As  one  who  laughs  and  cannot  stop 

himself) 
All  clanking  at  me,  in  me,  over  me. 


i 


128 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Until  I  shrieked  a  shriek  I  could  not 

hear, 
And  swooned  with  noise,   but  still, 

along  my  swoon, 
Was  'ware  the  baffled  changes  back- 
ward rang, 
Prepared  at  each  emerging  sense  to 

beat 
And  crash  it  out  with  clangor.    I  was 

weak; 
I  struggled    for  the   posture  of    my 

soul 
In  upright  consciousness  of  place  and 

time, 
But    evermore,    'twixt    waking    and 

asleep. 
Slipped  somjBhow,  staggered,  caught 

at  Marian's  eyes 
A    moment,    (it    is    very    good    for 

strength 
To  know  that  some  one  needs  you  to 

be  strong) 
And  so  recovered  what  I  call  myself, 
For  that  time. 

I  just  knew  it  when  we  swept 
Above  the  old  roofs  of  Dijon.    Lyons 

dropped 
A  spark  into  the  night,  half  trodden 

out 
Unseen.     But  presently  the  winding 

Rhone 
Washed  out  the  moonlight  large  along 

his  banks 
Which  strained  their  yielding  curves 

out  clear  and  clean 
To    hold  it,  —  shadow  of    town  and 

castle  blurred 
Upon  the   hurrying  river.     Such  an 

air 
Blew  thence  upon  the  forehead,  —  half 

an  air 
And  half  a  water  —that  I  leaned  and 

looked, 
Then,  turning  back  on  M:.i:  ■.,:,  smiled 

to  mark 
That  she  lookec"   c-._y  o;\  h'jr  child, 

who  slept, 
His  face  toward  'iie  mo?  v  too. 

So  we  passed 
The    liberal    open    country  and    the 

close, 
Ahd    .shot    through    tunnels,    like    a 

li^'^.     'ing- wedge 
By     great      Tlior-hammers      driven 

through  the  rock, 
Which,  quivering   through  the  intes- 
tine blackn-'ss,  splits, 
And  lets  it  ia  at  once:  the  train  swept 

iu 


Athrob  with   effort,   trembling  with 

resolve. 
The  fierce  denouncing  whistle  wailing 

on, 
And  dying  off,  smothered  in  the  shud- 
dering dark; 
While  we  self-awed,   drew  troubled 

breath,  oppi-essed 
As    other    Titans,    underneath     the 

pile 
And    nightmare    of    the    mountains. 

Out,  at  last. 
To  catch   the  dawn  afloat  upon  the 

land. 
—  Hills,    slung    forth    broadly    and 

gauntly  everywhere. 
Not    crampt     in    'their    foundations, 

pushing  wide 
Rich  outspreads  of  the  vineyards  and 

the  corn, 
(As  if  they  entertained  i'  the  name  of 

France) 
While    down    their    straining    sides 

streamed  manifest 
A    soil     as     red    as    Charlemagne's 

knightly  blood, 
To  consecrate  the  verdure.    Some  one 

said, 
"Marseilles!"     And  lo,    the  city  of 

Marseilles, 
With  all  her  ships  behind  her,  and 

beyond, 
The  cimiter  of  ever-shining  sea 
For  right-hand  use,  bared  blue  against 

the  sky  ! 

That  night  we  spent  between  the  pur- 
ple heaven 

And  purple  water.  I  think  Marian 
slept ; 

But  I,  as  a  dog  a-watch  for  his  mas- 
ter's foot. 

Who  cannot  sleep  or  eat  before  he 
hears, 

I  sate  upon  the  deck,  and  watched  the 
niglit, 

And  listened  through  the  stars  for 
Italy. 

Those  marriage-bells  I  spoke  of 
sounded  far, 

As  some  child's  go-cart  in  the  street 
beneath 

To  a  dying  man  who  will  not  pass 
the  day. 

And  knows  it,  holding  by  a  hand  he 
loves. 

I,  too,  sate  quiet,  satisfied  with  death. 

Sate  silent.  I  could  hear  my  own 
soul  speak, 


^ 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


129 


And  had  my  friend  ;  for  Natnre  comes 
sometimes, 

And  says,  "  I  am  ambassador  for 
God." 

I  felt  the  wind  soft  from  the  land  of 
souls  ; 

The  old  miraculous  mountains  heaved 
in  sight, 

One  straining  past  another  along  the 
shore, 

The  way  of  grand  dull  Odyssean 
ghosts 

Athirst  to  drink  the  cool  blue  wine  of 
seas. 

And  stare  on  voyagers.  Peak  push- 
ing peak. 

They  stood.  I  watched,  beyond  that 
Tyrian  belt 

Of  intense  sea  betwixt  them  and  the 
ship, 

Down  all  their  sides  the  misty  olive- 
woods 

Dissolving  in  the  weak  congenial 
moon, 

And  still  disclosing  some  brown  con- 
A'ent-tower, 

That  seems  as  if  it  grew  from  some 
brown  rock, 

Or  many  a  little  lighted  village,  dropt 

Like  a  fallen  star  upon  so  high  a 
point 

You  wonder  what  can  keep  it  in  its 
place 

From  sliding  headlong  with  the  water- 
falls 

Which  powder  all  the  myrtle  and 
orange  groves 

"With  spray  of  silver.    Thus  my  Italy 

Was  stealing  on  us.  Genoa  broke 
with  day  ; 

The  Doria's  long  pale  palace  striking 
out, 

From  green  hills  in  advance  of  the 
white  town, 

A  mar1)le  finger  dominant  to  ships. 

Seen  glimmering  thi:?ngh  the  uncer- 
tain gray  of  dawn. 

And  then  I  did  not  think,  "  My 
Italy !  " 

I  thought,  "  My  father  !  "  Oh,  my  fa- 
ther's house. 

Without  his  presence  !  Places  are  too 
much, 

Or  else  too  little,  for  immortal  man, — 

Too  little,  when  love's  May  o'ergrows 
the  ground  ; 

Too  much,  when  that  luxuriant  robe 
of  green 


Is    rustling    to  our    ankles    in    dead 

leaves. 
'Tis  only  good  to  be  or  here  or  there, 
Because  we  had  a  dream  on  such  a 

stone, 
Or  this  or  that;  but  once  being  wholly 

waked, 
And  come  back  to  the  stone  without 

the  dream. 
We  trip  upon't,  alas  !   and  hurt  our- 
selves ; 
Or  else  it  falls  on  us,  and  grinds  us 

flat, — 
The  heaviest  gravestone  on  this  bury- 
ing earth. 
—  But,  while  I  stood   and  mused,  a 

quiet  touch 
Fell  light  upon  my  arm,  and,  turning 

round, 
A  pair  of  moistened  eyes  convicted 

mine. 
"  What,  Marian  !  is  the  babe  astir  so 

soon  ?  " 
"  He  sleeps,"  she  answered.    "  I  have 

crept  up  thrice, 
And  seen  you  sitting,  standing,  etill 

at  watch. 
I  thought  it  did  you  good  till  now;  but 

now"  .  .  . 
"But  now,"  I  said,  "you  leave  the 

child  alone." 
"And  you're  alone,"  she  answered; 

and  she  looked 
As  if  I,  too,  were  something.     Sweet 

the  help 
Of   one   we    have   helped  !    Thanks, 

Marian,  for  such  help, 

I  found  a  house  at  Florence  on  the 

hill 
Of  Bellosguardo.     'Tis  a  tower  which 

keeps 
A  post  of  double  observation  o'er 
That  valley 'of    Arno  (holding   as  a 

hand 
The  outsjiread  city)  straight  toward 

Fiesole 
And  Mount  Morello  and  the  setting 

sun, 
The  Vallombrosan  mountains  opi^o- 

site. 
Which  sunrise  fills  as  full  as  crystal 

cups 
Turned  red  to  the  brim  because  their 

wine  is  red. 
No  sun  could  die,  nor  yet  be  born,  \u\- 

seen 
By  dwellers  at  my  villa.    Morn  and 

eve 


130 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Were  magnified  before  us  in  the  pure 
Illimitable  space  and  pause  of  sky, 
Intense  as  angels'  garments  blanched 

with  God, 
Less  blue  than  radiant.      From  the 

outer  wall 
Of  the  garden  drops  the  mystic  float- 
ing gray 
Of     olive-trees,    (with     interruptions 

green 
From  maize  and  vine)  until  'tis  caught 

and  torn 
Upon  the  abrupt  black  line  of  cypress- 
es 
Which   signs    the  way  to    Florence. 

Beautiful 
The  city  lies  along  the  ample  vale, 
Cathedral,  tower  and  palace,  piazza 

and  street. 
The  river  trailing  like  a  silver  cord 
Tlirough  all,  and  curling  loosely,  both 

before 
And  after,  over  the  whole  stretch  of 

land 
Sown  whitely  up  and  down  its  oppo- 
site slopes 
With  farms  and  villas. 

Many  weeks  had  passed. 
No  word  was  granted.     Last,  a  letter 

came 
From  Vincent  Carrington, — "  My  dear 

Miss  Leigh, 
You've  been  as  silent  as  a  poet  should. 
When  any  other  man  is  sure  to  speak. 
If  sick,   if  vexed,   if  dumb,  a  silver 

piece 
Will  split  a  man's  tongue,  —  straight 

he  speaks,  and  says, 
'  Received  that  check.'     But  you  .  .  . 

I  send  you  funds 
To  Paris,  and  you  make  no  sign  at 

all. 
Remember  I'm  responsible,  and  wait 
A  sign  of  you,  Miss  Leigh. 

"  Meantime  your  book 
Is  eloquent  as  if  you  were  not  dumb ; 
And  common  critics,  ordinarily  deaf 
To  such  fine  meanings,  and,  like  deaf 

men,  loath 
To  seem  deaf,  answering  chance-wise, 

yes  or  no, 
'  It  must  be,'  or  'It  must  not,'  (most 

pronounced 
When  least  convinced)  pronounce  for 

once  aright: 
You'd  think  they  really  heard,  — and 

so  they  do  .  .  . 
The  burr  of  three  or  four  who  really 

hear 


And  praise  your  book  aright:  fame's 

smallest  trump 
Is  a  great  ear-trumpet  for  the  deaf  as 

posts. 
No  other  being  effective.     Fear  not, 

friend : 
We  think  here  you  have  written  a 

good  book. 
And  you,  a  woman  !     It  was  in  you 

—  yes, 
I  felt  'twas  in  you;    yet  I  doubted 

half 
If  that  od-force  of  German  Reichen- 

bach, 
Which    still  from  female   finger-tips 

burns  blue. 
Could  strike  out    as    our  masculine 

white-heats 
To  quicken  a  man.    Forgive  me.    All 

my  heart 
Is  quick  with  yours  since,  just  a  fort- 
night since, 
I  read  your  book  and  loved  it. 

"  Will  you  love 
My  wife    too?    Here's  my  secret   I 

might  keep 
A  month  more  from  you ;  but  I  yield 

it  up 
Because    I    know    you'll    write    the 

sooner  for't, 
Most  women  (of  your  height  even) 

counting  love 
Life's  only  serious  business.     Who's 

my  wife 
That  shall  be  in  a  month  ?  you  ask  ? 

nor  guess  ? 
Remember    what    a    pair    of    topaz 

eyes 
You   once    detected,   turned    against 

the  wall. 
That  morning  in  my  London  paint- 
ing-room ; 
The  face  half-sketched,  and  slurred; 

the  eyes  alone  ! 
But  you  .  .  .  you    caught    them    up 

with  yours,  and  said 
'Kate  Ward's  eyes  surely.'  —  Now  I 

own  the  truth: 
I  had   thrown  them   there    to    keep 

them  safe  from  Jove, 
They  would    so    naughtily  find  out 

their  way 
To  both  the  heads  of  both  my  Danaes, 
Where  just  it  made  me  mad  to  look 

at  them. 
Such  eyes  !  I  could  not  paint  or  think 

of  eyes 
But  those,  —  and  so  I  flung  them  into 

paint, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


131 


And  turned  them  to  the  wall's  care. 

Ay,  but  now 
I've    let   them  out,  my  Kate's.     I've 

painted  her, 
(I  change  my  style,  and  leave  mythol- 
ogies). 
The  whole  sweet  face:  it  looks  upon 

my  soul 
Like  a  face  on  water,  to  beget  itself. 
A  half-length  jiortrait,  in  a  hanging 

cloak 
Like  one  you  wore  once;  'tis  a  little 

frayed,  — 
I  pressed  too  for  the  nude,  hai-moni- 

ous  arm; 
But  she,   she'd  have   her   way,   and 

have  her  cloak: 
She  said  she  coiild  be  like  you  only 

so. 
And    would    not    miss    the    fortune. 

Ah,  my  friend. 
You'll  write  and  say  she   shall   not 

miss  your  love 
Through  meeting  mine  ?  in  faith,  she 

would  not  change. 
She  has  your  books  by  heart  more 

than  my  words, 
And  quotes  you  up  against  me  till  I'm 

imshed 
AMiere,  three  months  since,  her  eyes 

were:  nay,  in  fact. 
Nought  satisfied  her  but  to  make  me 

paint 
Your  last  book  folded  in  her  dim^Jled 

hands. 
Instead  of  my  brown  palette,   as   I 

wished. 
And,  grant  me,  the  j^resentment  had 

been  newer: 
She'd    grant    me    nothing.     I    coni- 

jjounded  for 
The  naming  of  the  wedding-day  next 

month. 
And  gladly  too.     'Tis  pretty  to  re- 
mark 
How  women  can  love  women  of  your 

sort, 
And  tie  their  hearts  with  love-knots 

to  your  feet, 
Grow    insolent     about    you    against 

men, 
And  put  us  down  by  putting  up  the 

lip. 
As  if  a  man  —  there  are  such,  let  us 

own, 
Who  write  not  ill  —  remains  a  man, 

poor  wretch. 
While    you  !  —    Write  weaker  than 

Aurora  Leigh, 


And  there'll  be  women  who  believe 

of  you 
(Besides  my  Kate)  that  if  you  walked 

on  sand 
You  would  not  leave  a  footprint. 

"  Are  you  put 
To  wonder  by  my  marriage,  like  poor 

Leigh  ? 
'  Kate  Ward ! '  he  said.    '  Kate  Ward  I ' 

he  said  anew. 
'  I     thought '    ...    he      said,     and 

stopped,  — '  I  did  not  think  '  .  .  . 
And  then  he  dropped  to  silence. 

"  Ah,  he's  changed. 
I  had  not  seen  him,  you're  aware,  for 

long. 
But  went,   of    course.     I    have    not 

touched  on  this 
Through  all  this  letter,  conscious  of 

your  heart. 
And  writing   lightlier  for  the  heavy 

fact, 
As  clocks  are  voluble  with  lead. 

"  How  poor, 
To  say  I'm  sorry  !  dear  Leigh,  dear- 
est Leigh  ! 
In  those  old  days  of  Shropshire, — 

pardon  me,  — 
When  he  and  you  fought  many  a  field 

of  gold 
On  what  you  should  do,  or  you  should 

not  do, — 
Make  bread,  or  verses,  (it  just  came 

to  that) 
I  thought  you'd  one  day  draw  a  silk- 
en peace 
Through  a  golden  ring.     I    thought 

so:  foolishly. 
The    event    proved  ;    for    you    went 

more  oj)posite 
To  each  other,  month  by  mouth,  and 

year  by  year, 
Until    this    happened.      God    knows 

best,  we  say, 
But  hoarsely.     When  the  fever  took 

him  first, 
Just    after    I    had    writ    to    you    in 

France, 
They  tell  me  Lady  Waldemar  mixed 

drinks. 
And  counted  grains,  like  any  salaried 

nurse, 
Excepting  that  she  wept  too.    Then, 

Lord  Howe, 
You're  right  about  Lord  Howe,  Lord 

Howe's  a  trump; 
And   yet,  with  such   iu   his  hand,  a 

man  like  Leigh 


132 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


May  lose  as  he  does.    There's  an  end 

to  all, 
Yes,   even    this    letter,    though    this 

second  sheet 
May    find    you    doubtful.      "Write    a 

word  for  Kate: 
She  reads  my  letters  always,  like   a 

wife, 
And  if  she  sees  her  name  I'll  see  her 

smile 
And  share  the  luck.     So,  bless  you, 

friend  of  two ! 
I  will  not  ask  you  what  your  feeling 

is 
At  Florence  with  my  pictures.     I  can 

hear 
Your  heart  a-flutter  over  the  snow- 
hills; 
And,  just  to  pace  the  Pitti  with  you 

once, 
I'd  give  a  half-hour  of  to-morrow's 

walk 
With  Kate  ...  I  think  so.     Vincent 

Carrington." 

The  noon  was  hot:   the  air  scorched 

like  the  sun. 
And  was  shut  out.    The  closed   per- 

siani  threw 
Their    long-scored    shadows    on    my 

villa-floor, 
And    interlined    the    golden    atmos- 
phere 
Straight,   still, — across  the   pictures 

on  the  wall, 
The    statuette    on    the    console,    (of 

young  Love 
And  iPsyche  made  one  marble  by  a 

kiss) 
The  low  couch  where  I  leaned,  the 

table  near. 
The  vase  of  lilies  Marian  pulled  last 

night, 
(Each  green  leaf  and  each  white  leaf 

ruled  in  black 
As  if  for  writing  some  new  text  of 

fate) 
And  the  open    letter  rested  on  my 

knee; 
But  there  the  lines  swerved,  trembled, 

though  I  sate 
Untroubled,      plainly,      reading      it 

again 
And  three  times.    Well,  he's  married: 

that  is  clear. 
No  wonder  that  he's  married,   nor, 

much  more. 
That    Vincent's    therefore    "  sorry." 

Why,  of  course 


The  lady  nursed  him  when  he  was 

not  well, 
Mixed  drinks  —  unless  nepenthe  was 

the  drink 
'Twas  scarce  worth    telling.    But  a 

man  in  love 
Will  see  the  whole  sex  in  his  mistress' 

hood. 
The  prettier  for  its  lining  of  fair  rose. 
Although  he  catches  back  and  says  at 

last, 
"  I'm  sorry."     Sorry.     Lady  Walde- 

mar 
At  prettiest,  under  the  said  hood,  pre- 
served 
From  such  a  light  as  I  could  hold  to 

her  face 
To    flare    its    ugly   wrinkles    out    to 

shame. 
Is  scarce  a  wife  for  Romney,  as  friends 

judge, — 
Aurora  Leigh,  or  Vincent  Carrington : 
That's  plain.    And  if  he"s  "  conscious 

of  my  heart "... 
It  may  be  natural,  though  the  phrase 

is  strong; 
(One's  apt  to  use  strong  phrases,  being 

in  love) 
And  even    that    stuff    of  "  fields    of 

gold,"  "  gold  rings," 
And  what  he  "  thought,"  poor  Vin- 
cent !  what  he  "  thought," 
May  never    mean    enough   to    ruflfle 

me. 
—  Why,    this    room    stifles.     Better 

burn  than  choke : 
Best  have  air,  air,  although  it  comes 

with  fire; 
Throw  open  blinds  and  windows  to 

the  noon, 
And  take  a  blister  on  my  brow  in- 
stead 
Of  this  dead  weight !   best  perfectly 

be  stunned 
By  those  insufferable  cicale,  sick 
And  hoarse  with  rapture  of  the  sum- 
mer heat. 
That  sing,  like  poets,  till  their  hearts 

break,  — sing 
Till  men  say,  "  It's  too  tedious." 

Books  succeed. 
And  lives  fail.     Do  I  feel    it  so  at 

last? 
Kate  loves  a  worn-out  cloak  for  being 

like  mine. 
While  I  live  self-despised  for  being 

myself. 
And  yearn  toward  some  one  else,  who 

yearns  away 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


133 


From  what  be  is,  iu  his  turn.     Strain 

a  step 
Forever,  yet  gain  no  step?    Are  we 

such 
"We    cannot,    with    our    admirations 

even, 
Our       tiptoe     aspirations,    tou("h     a 

thing 
That's  higher  than  we  ?    Is  all  a  dis- 
mal flat, 
And  God  alone  above  each,  —  as  the 

sun 
O'er    level    lagunes,   to    make    them 

shine  and  stink, — 
Laying  stress  upon  us  with  immediate 

flame. 
While  we  respond  with  our  miasmal 

fog, 
And  call  it  mounting  higher  because 

we  grow 
More  highly  fatal  ? 

Tush,  Aurora  Leigh  ! 
You  wear  your  sackcloth   looped  in 

Caesar's  way, 
And  brag  your  failings  as  mankind's. 

Be  still. 
There  is  what's  higher,  in  this  very 

world. 
Than  you  can  live,  or  catch  at.     Stand 

aside. 
And  look  at  others,  —  instance  little 

Kate. 
She'll  make  a  perfect  wife  for  Car- 

rington. 
She  always  has  been  looking  round 

the  earth 
For    something    good    and    green  to 

alight  upon 
And    nestle    into,    with    those    soft- 
winged  eyes. 
Subsiding    now  beneath    his    manly 

hand, 
'Twixt  trembling  lids  of  inexpressive 

joy. 
I  will  not  scorn  her,   after  all,   too 

much. 
That  so  much  she  should   love  me. 

A  wise  man 
Can  i^luck  a  leaf,  and  find  a  lecture 

in't; 
And  I  too  .  .  .  God  has  made  me,  — 

I've  a  heart 
That's  capable  of  worship,  love,  and 

loss: 
We  say  the  same  of    Shakspeare's. 

I'll  be  meek 
And  learn   to   reverence,  even   this 

poor  myself. 


Tlie    book,   too  —  pass  it.     "A  good 

book,"  says  he, 
"  And  you  a  woman."     I  had  laughed 

at  that 
But  long  since.     I'm  a  woman,  it  is 

true ; 
Alas,  and  woe  to  us,  wlien  we  feel  it 

most ! 
Then    least    care    have    we    for    the 

crowns  and  goals 
And  compliments  on  writing  our  good 

books. 

The  book  has  some  truth  in  it,  I  be- 
lieve ; 

And  truth  outlives  pain,  as  the  soul 
does  life. 

I  know  we  talk  our  Phsedons  to  the 
end, 

Through  all  the  dismal  faces  that  we 
make, 

O'er-wrinkled  with  dishonoring  agony 

From  decomposing  drugs.  I  have 
written  truth. 

And  I  a  woman,  — feebly,  partially, 

Inaptly  in  presentation,  Romney'll 
add, 

Because  a  woman.  For  the  truth  it- 
self. 

That's  neither  man's  nor  woman's, 
but  just  God's; 

None  else  has  reason  to  be  proud  of 
truth : 

Himself  will  see  it  sifted,  disin- 
thralled , 

And  kept  upon  the  height  and  in  the 
light, 

As  far  as  and  no  farther  than  'tis 
truth ; 

For  now  he  has  left  off  calling  firma- 
ments 

And  strata,  flowers  and  creatures, 
very  good. 

He  says  it  still  of  truth,  which  is  his 
own. 

Truth,  so  far,  in  my  book,  — the  truth 

which  draws 
Through  all  things  upwards,  —  that  a 

twofold  world 
Must  go  to  a  i^erfect  cosmos.    Natural 

things 
And  spiritual,  —  who  separates  those 

two 
In  art,  in  morals,  or  the  social  drift. 
Tears    up  the  bond  of    nature,   and 

brings  death, 
Paints  futile  pictures,  writes  unreal 

verse, 


( 


134 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Leads  vulgar  days,  deals  ignorantly 
with  men, 

Is  wrong,  in  short,  at  all  points.  We 
divide 

This  apple  of  life,  and  cut  it  through 
the  pips: 

The  perfect  round  which  fitted  Venus' 
hand 

Has  perished  as  utterly  as  if  we  ate 

Roth  halves.  Without  the  spiritual, 
observe, 

The  natural's  impossible,  no  form, 

No  motion:  without  sensuous,  spirit- 
ual 

Is  inappreciable,  no  beauty  or  jMwer. 

And  in  this  twofold  sphere  the  two- 
fold man 

(For  still  the  artist  is  intensely  a 
man) 

Holds  firmly  by  the  natural  to  reach 

The  spiritual  beyond  it,  fixes  still 

The  type  with  mortal  vision  to  pierce 
through, 

With  eyes  immortal  to  the  antetype 

Some  call  the  ideal,  better  called  the 
real. 

And  certain  to  be  called  so  presently,' 

When  things  shall  have  their  names. 
Look  long  enough 

On  any  peasant's  face  here,  coarse 
and  lined, 

You'll  catch  Antiuous  somewhere  in 
that  clay. 

As  perfect-featured  as  he  yearns  at 
Rome 

From  marble  pale  with  beauty;  then 
persist. 

And,  if  your  apprehension's  compe- 
tent, 

You'll  find  some  fairer  angel  at  his 
back, 

As  much  exceeding  him  as  he  the 
boor, 

And  pushiug  him  with  empyreal  dis- 
dain 

Forever  out  of  sight.  Ay,  Carring- 
tou 

Is  glad  of  such  a  creed:  an  artist 
must. 

Who  paints  a  tree,  a  leaf,  a  common 
stone 

With  just  his  hand,  and  finds  it  sud- 
denly 

Apiece  with  and  conterminous  to  his 
soul. 

Why  else  do  these  things  move  him, 
—  leaf,  or  stone? 

The  bird's  not  moved,  that  jjecks  at  a 
spring-shoot; 


Nor  yet  the  horse,  before  a  quarry 
agraze : 

But  man,  the  twofold  creature,  ap- 
prehends 

The  twofold  manner,  in  and  out- 
wardly. 

And  nothing  in  the  world  comes  sin- 
gle to  him, 

A  mere  itself,  —  cup,  column,  or  can- 
dlestick, 

All  patterns  of  what  shall  be  in  the 
Mount; 

The  whole  temporal  show  related 
royally. 

And  built  up  to  eterne  significance 

Through  the  open  arms  of  God. 
"There's  nothing  great 

Nor  small,"  has  said  a  poet  of  our 
day, 

Whose  voice  will  ring  beyond  the 
curfew  of  eve, 

And  not  be  thrown  out  by  the  matin's 
bell: 

And  truly,  I  reiterate.  Nothing's 
small  ! 

No  lily-muflied  hum  of  a  summer-bee. 

But  finds  some  coupling  with  the 
spinning  stars; 

No  pebble  at  your  foot,  but  proves  a 
sphere ; 

No  chaffinch,  but  implies  the  cheru- 
bim; 

And  (glancing  on  my  own  thin, 
veined  wrist) 

In  such  a  little  tremor  of  the  blood 

The  whole  strong  clamor  of  a  vehe- 
ment soul 

Doth  utter  itself  distinct.  Earth's 
crammed  with  heaven. 

And  every  common  bush  afire  with 
God; 

But  only  he  who  sees  takes  otf  his 
shoes. 

The  rest  sit  round  it  and  pluck  black- 
berries, 

And  daub  their  natural  faces  un- 
aware 

More  and  more  from  the  first  simili- 
tude. 

Truth,  so  far,  in  my  book  !  —  a  truth 

which  draws 
From  all  things  upward.    I,  Aurora, 

still 
Have  felt  it  hound  me  through  the 

wastes  of  life 
As  Jove  did  lo;  and  until  that  hand 
Shall  overtake  me  wholly,  and  ou  my 

head 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


135 


Lay    down    its    large    unfluctuatiug 

peace, 
The  feverish  gad-fly  pricks  me  up  and 

down. 
It    must    be.    Art's    the    witness    of 

what  is 
Behind  this    show.     If    tliis   world's 

show  were  all, 
Then  imitation  would  be  all  in  art. 
There  Jove's  hand  gripes  us  !  for  we 

stand  here,  we, 
If    genuine    artists,    witnessing    for 

God's 
Complete,     consummate,    undivided 

work; 
—  That  every  natural  flower  which 

grows  on  earth 
Implies  a  flower  upon  the  spiritual 

side, 
Substantial,  archetypal,  all  aglow 
Svith  blossoming  causes,  —  not  so  far 

away. 
But  we  whose  spirit-sense  is  some- 
what cleared 
May  catch  at  something  of  the  bloom 

and  breath,  — 
Too    vaguely    apprehended,    though, 

indeed. 
Still  apprehended,  consciously  or  not. 
And    still    transferred     to     pictui'e, 

music,  verse, 
For  thrilling  audient  and  beholding 

souls 
By    signs    and    touches    which    are 

known  to  souls. 
How  known,  they  know  not;  why, 

they  cannot  find : 
So  straight  call   out  on  genius,  say, 

"A  man 
Produced  this,"   when  much  rather 

they  should  say, 
"  'Tis  insight,  and  he  saw  this." 

Thus  is  art 
Self-magnified  in  magnifying  a  truth 
Which,      fully      recognized,      would 

change  the  world. 
And  shift  its  morals.     If  a  man  could 

feel, 
Not  one  day,  in  the  artist's  ecstasy. 
But  every  day,  —  feast,  fast,  or  work- 
ing day,  — 
Tlie      spiritual      significance      burn 

through 
The  hieroglyphic  of  material  shows, 
Henceforward    he   would    paint    the 

globe  with  wings. 
And  reverence  fish  and  fowl,  the  bull, 

the  tree, 
And  even  his  very  body  as  a  man ; 


Which  now  he  counts  so  vile,  that  all 
the  towns 

Make  offal  of  their  daughters  for  its 
use 

On  summer-nights,  when  God  is  sad 
in  heaven 

To  think  what  goes  on  in  his  recreant 
world 

He    made    quite    other;     while    that 
moon  he  made 

To  shine  there,  at  the  first  love's  cov- 
enant. 

Shines  still,  convictive  as  a  marriage- 
ring 

Before  adulterous  eyes. 

How  sure  it  is. 

That,  if  we  say  a  true  word,  instantly 

We  feel  'tis  God's,  not  ours,  and  pass 
it  on. 

Like  bread  at  sacrament  we  taste  and 
pass, 

Nor  handle  for  a  moment,  as  indeed 

We  dared    to    set    up  any  claim    to 
such  ! 

And  I  —  mv  poem  —  let  my  readers 
talk.  ' 

I'm  closer  to  it,  I  can  speak  as  well: 

I'll  say  Avith  Romney,  that  the  book 
is  weak, 

The  range  uneven,  the  points  of  sight 
obscure. 

The  music  interrupted. 

Let  us  go. 

The    end   of    woman  (or  of    man,   I 
think) 

Is  not  a  book.    Alas,  the  best  of  books 

Is  but    a  word    in    art,   which  soon 
grows  cramped, 

Stiff,     dubious-statured,      with      the 
weight  of  years. 

And    drops  an    accent    or    digamma 
down 

Some  cranny  of  unfathomable  time. 

Beyond   the    critic's    reaching.      Art 
itself. 

We've  called  the  larger  life,  must  feel 
the  soul 

Live  iiast  it.     For  more's  felt  than  is 
perceived, 

And  more's  perceived  than  can  be  in- 
terpreted. 

And  love  strikes  higher  with  his  lam- 
bent flame 

Than  art  can  pile  the  fagots. 

Is  it  so  ? 

When  Jove's    hand    meets  us    with 
composing  touch. 

And  when  at  last  we  are  hushed  and 
satisfied. 


_i_ 


136 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


Then  lo  does   not  call  it  truth,  but 
love  ? 

Well,  well !  my  father  was  an  English- 
man : 

My  mother's  blood  in  me  is  not  so 
strong 

That  I  should  bear  this  stress  of  Tus- 
can noon, 

And  keep  my  wits.    The  town  there 
seems  to  seethe 

In  this  Medjean  boil-pot  of  the  sun, 

And  all  the  patient  hills  are  bubbling 
'        round 

As  if  a  prick  would  leave  them  flat. 
Does  heaven 

Keep  far  off,  not  to  set  us  in  a  blaze  ? 

Not  so  ;   let  drag  your  fiery  fringes, 
heaven, 

And  burn  us  up  to  quiet     Ah  !  we 
know 

Too  much  here,  not  to  know  what's 
best  for  peace  ; 

We  have  too  much  light  here,  not  to 
want  more  fire 

To  purify  and  end  us.     We  talk,  talk. 

Conclude  upon  divine  x^hilosophies, 

And  get  the  thanks  of  men  for  hope- 
ful books ; 

Whereat  we  take  our  own  life  up,  and 
.  .  .  pshaw  ! 

Unless    we   piece   it  with   another's 
life, 

(A  yard  of  silk  to  carry  out  our  lawn) 

As  well  suppose  my  little  handker- 
chief 

Would  cover  Samminiato,  church  and 
all,     • 

If  out  I  threw  it  past  the  cypresses, 

As,  in  this  ragged,  narrow  life  of  mine. 

Contain  my  own  conclusions. 

But  at  least 

We'll  shut  \x^  the  persiani,  and  sit 
down. 

And  when  my  head's  done  aching,  in 
the  cool. 

Write  just  a  word  to  Kate  and  Car- 
rington. 

May  joy  be  with  them  !  she  has  chosen 
well. 

And  he  not  ill. 

I  should  be  glad,  I  think, 

Except  for  Romney.    Had  he  married 
Kate, 

I  surely,  surely,  should  be  very  glad. 

This  Florence  sits  upon  me  easily. 

With    native  air    and    tongue.      My 
graves  are  calm. 

And  do  not  too  much  hurt  me.    Mari- 
an's good, 


Gentle,  and  loving,  lets  me  hold  the 

child. 
Or  drags  him  up  the  bills  to  find  me 

flowers 
And    fill    these  vases  ere  I'm  quite 

awake,  — 
My  grandiose  red  tulips,  which  grow 

wild  ; 
Or  Dante's    purple    lilies,   which    ho 

blew 
To  a  larger  bubble  with  his  prophet 

breath  ; 
Or  one  of  those  tall  flowering  reeds 

that  stand 
In  Arno  like  a  sheaf  of  sceptres  left 
By  some  remote  dynasty  of  dead  gods 
To  suck  the  stream  for  ages,  and  get 

green, 
And  blossom  wheresoe'er  a  hand  di- 
vine 
Had  warmed    the  place  with  ichor. 

Such  I  find 
At  early  morning  laid  across  my  bed, 
And  wake  up  pelted  with  a  childish 

laugh 
Which  even  Marian's  low  precipitous 

"Hush!" 
Has  vainly  interposed  to  put  away  ; 
While  I,  with  shut  eyes,  smile  and 

motion  for 
The  dewy  kiss  that's  very  sure  to  come 
From  mouth  and  cheeks,  the  whole 

child's  face  at  once 
Dissolved  on  mine,  as   if  a  nosegay 

burst 
Its  string  with  the  weight  of  roses 

overblown, 
And  dropt  upon  me.    Surely  I  should 

be  glad. 
The  little  creature  almost  loves  me 

now. 
And  calls  my  name   "  Alola,"  strip- 
ping off 
The  rs  like  thorns,  to  make  it  smooth 

enough 
To  take  between  his  dainty,  milk-fed 

lips, 
God  love  him  !    I  should  certainly  be 

glad. 
Except,  God  help  me  !  that  I'm  sor- 
rowful 
Because  of  Romney. 

Romney,  Romney  !    Well, 
This  grows  absurd,  —  too  like  a  tune 

that  runs 
I'  the  head,  and  forces  all  things  in 

the  world  — 
Wind,  rain,  the  creaking  gnat  or  stut- 
tering fly  — 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


137 


To  slug  itself,  and  vex  you  ;  yet  jier- 

haps 
A    paltry    time    you     never     fairly 

liked, 
Some  "I'd  be  a  butterfly,"  or  "C'est 

I'amour." 
We're  made  so,  —  not  such  tyrants  to 

ourselves. 
But    still  we   are    slaves    to    nature. 

Some  of  us 
Are  turned,  too,  overmuch  like  some 

poor  verse 
With  a  trick  of  ritouruelle  :  the  same 

thing  goes, 
And  comes  back  ever. 

Vincent  Carrington 
Is  "  sorry,"  and  I'm  sorry  ;   Init  /(e's 

strong 
To  mount  from  sorrow  to  his  heaven 

of  love, 
And     when    he    says    at    moments, 

"  Poor,  poor  Leigh, 
Who'll  never  call  his  own  so  true  a 

heart. 
So  fair  a  face  even,"  he  must  quick- 

Ij^  lose 
The    pain    of    pity    in  the  blush  he 

makes 
By  his  very  pitying  eyes.    The  snow, 

for  him. 
Has    fallen    in    May,  and    finds   the 

whole  earth  warm. 
And  melts  at  the  first  touch  of  the 

green  grass. 

But  Romnev,  —  he  has  chosen,  after 
all. 

I  think  he  had  as  excellent  a  sun 

To  see  by  as  most  others  ;    and  per- 
haps 

Has  scarce    seen    really  worse  than 
some  of  us. 

When  all's  said.     Let  him  pass.    I'm 
not  too  much 

A  woman,  not  to  be  a  man  for  once, 

And  bury  all  my  dead  like  Alaric, 

Depositing  the  treasures  of  my  soul 

In    this    drained    water-course,  then 
letting  flow 

The  river  of  life  again  with  commerce- 
ships. 

And  pleasure-barges  full  of  silks  and 
songs. 

Blow,  winds,  and  help  us. 

Ah,  we  mock  ourselves 

With  talking  of  the  winds  !   perhaps 
as  much 

With     other     resolutions.      How    it 
weighs, 


This  hot,  sick  air !  and  how  I  covet 
here 

The  dead's  provision  on  the  river- 
couch. 

With  silver  curtains  drawn  on  tinkling 
rings  ; 

Or  else  their  rest  in  quiet  crypts,  laid 

by 
From    heat    and    noise,    from    those 

cicale,  say. 
And  this  more  vexing  heart-beat ! 

So  it  is. 
We  covet  for  the  soul  the  body's  part. 
To  die  and  rot.      Even  so,  Aurora, 

ends 
Qur    aspiration    who     bespoke     our 

place 
So  far  in  the   east.     The  occidental 

flats 
Had  fed  us  fatter,  therefore  ?  we  have 

climbed 
Where  herbage  ends?  we  want  the 

beast's  part  now, 
And  tire  of  the  angel's  ?    Men  define 

a  man. 
The  creature  who  stands  front-ward  to 

the  stars. 
The    creature  wlio   looks   inward    to 

himself. 
The    tool-wright,    laugliing  creature. 

'Tis  enough  : 
We'll  say,  instead,  the  inconsequent 

creature,  man, 
For  that's  his  specialty.    What  crea- 
ture else 
Conceives  the  circle,  and  then  walks 

the  square  ? 
Loves  things  proved  bad,  and  leaves 

a  thing  proved  good  ? 
You  think  the  bee  makes  honey  half 

a  year, 
To  loathe  the  comb  in  winter,  and  de- 
sire 
The  little  ant's  food  rather  ?    But  a 

man  — 
Note  men  !  —  they   are    but   women, 

after  all, 
As  women  are  but  Auroras  !  —  there 

are  men 
Born  tender,  apt  to  pale  at  a  trodden 

worm. 
Who  paint  for  pastime,  in  their  favor- 
ite dream. 
Spruce  auto-vestments  flowered  with 

crocus-flames ; 
There  are,  too,  who  believe  in  hell, 

and  lie; 
There  are,  too,  who  believe  in  heaven, 

and  fear; 


138 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


There  are,  who  waste  their  souls  in 

working  out 
Life's  problem  on  these  sands  betwixt 

two  tides, 
Concluding,   "Give    us    the   oyster's 

part,  in  death." 

Alas,  long-suffering  and  most  patient 

God, 
Thou  needst  be  surelier  God  to  bear 

with  us 
Than  even  to  have  made  us  !   thou 

aspire,  aspire 
From  henceforth  for  me  !   thou  who 

hast  thyself 
Endure<i  this  tleshhood,  knowing  how_ 

as  a  soaked 
And  sucking  vesture   it   can  drag  us 

down, 
And    choke    us    in    the    melancholy 

deep, 
Sustain  me,  that  with  thee  I   walk 

these  waves. 
Resisting  !  —  breathe  me  upward,  thou 

in  me 
Aspiring,  who  art  the  way,  the  truth, 

the  life,  — 
That  no  truth  henceforth  seem  indif- 
ferent. 
No  wav  to  truth  laborious,   and  no 

li'fe, 
Not  even  this  life  I  live,  intolerable  ! 

The  days  went  by.  'I  took  up  the  old 
days, 

With  all  their  Tuscan  pleasures  worn 
and  sjioiled. 

Like  some  lost  book  we  dropt  in  the 
long  grass 

On  such  a  happy  summer  after- 
noon, 

When  last  we  read  it  with  a  loving 
fri(Mid, 

And  find  in  autumn,  when  the  friend 
is  gone, 

The  grass  cut  short,  the  weather 
changed, too  late, 

And  stare  "at,  as  at  something  won- 
derful. 

For  sorrow,  thinking  how  two  hands 
before 

Had  held  up  what  is  left  to  only  one. 

And  how  we  smiled  when  such  a 
vehement  nail 

Impressed  the  tiny  dint  here  which 
presents 

This  verse  in  fire  forever.    Tenderly 

And  mournfully  I  lived.  I  knew  the 
birds 


And  insects,  which  looked   fathered 
bj'  the  flowers 

And  emulous  of  their  hues;  I  recog- 
nized 

The  moths,  with  that  great  overpoise 
of  wings 

Which  make  a  mystery  of  them  how 
at  all 

They  can  stop  Hying;  butterflies,  that 
bear 

Upon  their  blue  wings  such  red  em- 
bers round. 

They  seem  to  scorch  the  blue  air  into 
holes 

Each  flight  they  take;   and  fireflies, 
that  suspire 

In   short  soft   lapses  of    transported 
flame 

Across  the  tinkling  dark,  while  over- 
head 

The  constant  and  inviolable  stars 

Outburn  those  lights-of-love ;  melodi- 
ous owls, 

(If  music  had  but  one  note  and  was 
sad, 

'Twould  sound  just  so),  and  all  the 
silent  swirl 

Of  bats  that  seem  to  follow  in  the  air 

Some  grand  circumference  of  a  shad- 
owy dome 

To  which  we  are  blind;  and  then  the 
nightingales. 

Which  pluck  our  heart  across  a  gar- 
den-wall, 

(When    walking    in    the    town)    and 
carry  it 

So  high    Into    the    bowery    almond- 
trees 

We  tremble  and  are  afraid,  and  feel 
as  if 

The  golden  flood  of    moonlight  un- 
aware 

Dissolved   the  pillars  of   the  steady 
earth 

And  made  it  less  substantial.    And  I 
knew 

The  harmless  opal  snakes,  the  large- 
mouthed  frogs, 

(Those  noisy  vaunters  of  their  shal- 
low streams) 

And  lizards,  the  green  lightnings  of 
the  wall. 

Which,   if   you  sit  down   quiet,   nor 
sigh  loud. 

Will  flatter  you,  and  take  you  for  a 
stone, 

And  flash  familiarly  about  your  feet 
With   such   jjrodigious   ej^es   in   such 
small  lieads  !  — 


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AURORA   LEIGH. 


13{» 


I  kuew  them  (though  they  had  some- 
what dwindled  from 

My  childish  imagery),  and  kept  in 
mind 

How  last  I  sate  among  them  equally, 

In  fellowship  and  mateship,  as  a 
child 

Feels  equal  still  toward  insect,  beast, 
and  bird. 

Before  the  Adam  in  him  has  foregone 

All  privilege  of  Eden,  making 
friends 

And  talk  with  such  a  bird  or  such  a 
goat, 

And  buying  many  a  two-inch-wide 
rush-cage 

To  let  out  the  caged  cricket  on  a  tree, 

Saying,  "  Oh,  my  dear  grillino,  were 
you  cramped  ? 

And  are  you  hapi)y  with  the  ilex- 
leaves  ? 

And  do  vou  love  me  who  have  let  vou 
go> 

Say  yes  in  singing,  and  I'll  under- 
stand." 

But  now  the  creatures  all  seemed  far- 
ther off. 

No  longer  mine,  nor  like  me,  only 
there, 

A  gulf  between  us.  I  could  yearn, 
indeed. 

Like  other  rich  men,  for  a  droj)  of 
dew 

To  cool  this  heat,  —  a  drop  of  the 
early  dew. 

The  irrecoverable  child-innocence 

(Before  the  heart  took  tire  and  with- 
ered life) 

"When  childhood  might  pair  equally 
Avith  birds; 

But  now  .  .  .  the  liirds  were  grown 
too  proud  for  us, 

Alas  !  the  very  sun  forbids  the  dew. 

And  I  —  I  had  come  back  to  an  empty 

nest. 
Which  every  bird's  too  wise  for.    How 

I  heard 
]My   father's    step    on    that    deserted 

ground, 
His  voice  along  that   silence,  as  he 

told 
The   names   of   Ijird   and  insect,  tree 

and  flower, 
And  all  the  presentations  of  the  stars 
Across  Valdarno,  interposing  still 
"My    child,"    "my    child."      Wlicn 

fathers  say,  "  My  child," 


'Tis  easier  to  conceive  the  universe, 
And  life's  transitions  down  the  steps 
of  law. 

I  rode  once  to   the   little  mountain- 
house 
As  fast  as  if  to  find  my  father  there; 
But  when   in   sight   oft,  within  fifty 

yards, 
I  drojij^ed  my  horse's   bridle  on  his 

neck. 
And    paused    ujion    his    fiank.     The 

house's  front 
Was  cased  with  lingots  of  ripe  Indian 

corn 
In  tessellated  order  and  device 
Of    golden  patterns,  not  a  stone  of 

wall 
Uncovered,  not  an  incli  of  room  to 

grow 
A  vine-leaf.     The  old  poi'ch  had  dis- 
appeared. 
And  right  in  the  open  doorway  sate  a 

girl 
At  jjlaiting    straws,   her  black    hair 

strained  away 
To  a  scarlet  kerchief  caught  beneath 

her  chin 
In    Tuscan    fashion,    her    full  ebon 

eyes. 
Which  looked  too  heavy  to  be  lifted 

so, 
Still  dropt  and  lifted  toward  the  mul- 
berry-tree, 
On   which  the  lads  were  busj'  with 

their  staves 
In  shout  and  laughter,  stripiiing  every 

bough, 
As  bare  as  winter,  of  those  summer 

leaves 
Mv  father  had  not  clianged  for  all  the 

silk 
In   which   the   ugly  silkworms    hide 

themselves. 
Enough.     My  horse    recoiled    l)efore 

my  heart. 
I  turned  the  rein  ;ibniptly.     Back  we 

went 
As  fast,  to  Florence. 

That  was  trial  enough 
Of    graves.     I   would  not  visit,  if  I 

could, 
My    father's,    or    my    mother's     any 

more. 
To  see  if  stone-cutter  or  lichen  beat 
So   early  in  the  race,  or  throw  my 

flowers. 
Which  could  not  out-smell  heaven,  or 

sweeten  earth. 


I 


140 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


They  live  too  far  al)ove,  that  I  should 

look 
So   far   below  to   find    them:   let   me 

think 
That    rather    they    are    visiting    my 

grave, 
Called  life  here,  (undeveloped  yet  to 

life) 
And  that  they  drop  upon  me  now 

and  then, 
For  token  or  for  solace,  some  small 

weed 
Least  odorous  of  the  growths  of  par- 
adise, 
To  sjiare  such  pungent  scents  as  kill 

with  joy. 

My  old   Assunta,   too,  was   dead, — 

was  dead. 
O  land  of    all  men's  past  !    for  me 

alone 
It  would   not  mix  its  tenses.     I  was 

past. 
It  seemed,  like  others, — only  not  in 

heaven. 
And  many  a  Tuscan  eve  I  wandered 

down 
The  cypress  alley  like  a  restless  ghost 
That     tries     its"    feeble,     ineffectual 

breath 
Upon  its  own  charred  funeral-brands 

put  out 
Too  soon,  where  black  and  stiff  stood 

up  tlie  trees 
Against  the  broad  vermilion  of  the 

skies. 
Such  skies  !  —  all  clouds  abolished  in 

a  sweep 
Of  God's  skirt,  with  a  dazzle  to  ghosts 

and  men. 
As  down    I   went,   saluting    on    the 

bridge 
The  hem  of  such  before  'twas  caught 

away 
Beyond  the  peaks  of  Lucca.    Under- 
neath, 
The    river,    just    escaping  from    the 

weight 
Of  that  intolerable  glory,  ran 
In  acquiescent  shadow  murmurously; 
While  up  beside  it  streamed  the  festa- 

folk 
With  fellow-murmurs  from  their  feet 

and  fans. 
And  issimo  and  ino  and  sweet  poise 
Of  A'owels  in  their  pleasant,  scandal- 
ous talk; 
Returning    from     the     grand-duke's 

dairv-farm 


Before  the  trees  grew  dangerous  at 

eight, 
(For  "trust  no  tree  by  moonlight," 

Tuscans  say) 
To  eat  their  ice  at  Donay's  tenderly. 
Each  lovely  lady  close  to  a  cavalier 
Wlio  holds  her  dear  fan  while  she 

feeds  her  smile 
On  meditative  spoonfuls  of  vanille, 
And  listens  to  his  hot-breathed  vows 

of  love. 
Enough  to  thaw  her  cream,  and  scorch 

his  beard. 

'Twas  little  matter.  I  covild  pass 
them  by 

Indifferently,  not  fearing  to  be 
known. 

No  danger  of  being  wrecked  upon  a 
friend. 

And  forced  to  take  an  iceberg  for  an 
isle! 

The  verj^  English  here  must  wait,  and 
learn 

To  hang  the  cobweb  of  their  gossip 
out 

To  catch  a  fly.  I'm  happy.  It's  sub- 
lime. 

This  perfect  solitude  of  foreign  lands  ! 

To  be  as  if  you  had  not  been  till 
then, 

And  were  then,  simply  that  you 
chose  to  be; 

To  spring  up,  not  be  brought  forth 
from  the  ground, 

Like  grasshoppers  at  Athens,  and 
skip  thrice 

Before  a  woman  makes  a  pounce  on 
you 

And  plants  you  in  her  hair! — pos- 
sess, yourself, 

A  new  world  all  alive  with  creatures 
new, — 

New  sun,  new  moon,  new  flowers, 
new  peojjle  —  ah. 

And  be  possessed  by  none  of  them  1 
no  right 

In  one  to  call  your  name,  inquire 
your  where, 

Or  wliat  you  think  of  Mister  Some- 
one's book. 

Or  Mister  Other's  marriage  or  de- 
cease. 

Or  how's  the  headache  which  you 
had  last  week, 

Or  why  you  look  so  pale  still,  since 
it's'  gone. 

—  Such  most  surprising  riddance  of 
one's  life 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


1-U 


Comes  next  one's  death:    'tis  disem- 
bodiment 

Without  tlie  panj?.     I  marvel  people 
choose 

To   stand   stock-still,  like  fakirs,  till 
the  moss 

Grows   on   them   and    they    cry   out, 
self-admired, 

"  How  verdant  and  how  virtuous  !  " 
Well,  I'm  glad, 

Or  sliould  be,  if  grown  foreign  to  mv- 
self 

As  surely  as  to  others. 

Musing  so, 

I  walked  the   narrow,  iinrecognizing 
streets. 

Where    many    a    palace-front     peers 
gloomily 

Through    stony    visors     iron-barred, 
(prepared 

Alike,  should  foe  or  lover  pass   that 
way. 

For  guest  or  victim)  and  came  wan- 
dering out 

Upon  the   churches  with  mild   open 
doors 

And  plaintive  wail  of  vespers,  where 
a  few. 

Those      chiefly      women,     sprinkled 
round  in  blots 

Upon  the  dusky  pavement,  knelt  and 
jirayed 

Toward  the  altar's  silver  glory.     Oft 
a  ray 

(I  liked  to  sit  and  watch)  would  trem- 
ble out. 

Just   touch    some  face    more    lifted, 
more  hi  need, 

(Of  course  a  woman's)  while  I  dreamed 
a  tale 

To   fit   its  fortunes.     There  was   one 
who  looked 

As  if  the  earth  had  suddenly  grown 
too  large 

For  such  a  little  humpbacked  thing 
as  she; 

The  pitiful  black  kerchief  round  her 
neck 

Sole   proof    she  had  had  a    mother. 
One,  again, 

Looked   sick  for  love,  seemed  pray- 
ing some  soft  saint 

To  put  more  virtue  in  the  new,  fine 
scarf 

She  spent  a  fortnight's  meals  on  yes- 
terday. 

That  cruel  Gigi  might  return  his  eyes 

From   Giuliana.     Tliere   was  one,  so 
old. 


So  old,  to  kneel  grew  easier  than  to 

stand ; 
So  solitary,  she  accepts  at  last 
Our  Ladj'   for  her  gossip,   and  frets 

on 
Against  the  sinful  world  which  goes 

its  rounds 
In  marrying  and  being  married,  just 

the  same 
As  when  'twas  almost  good  and  had 

the  right, 
(Her  Gian  alive  and  she  herself  eigh- 
teen). 
"  And    yet,   now   even,   if    ]Madonna 

willed. 
She'd  win  a  tern   in  Thursday's  lot- 

terj'. 
And  better  all  things.    Did  she  dream 

for  nought. 
That,  boiling   cabbage  for  the    fast- 
day's  soup, 
It  smelt  like  blessed  entrails  ?  such  a 

dream 
For  nought  ?    would  sweetest  Mary 

cheat  her  so. 
And  lose  that  certain  candle,  straight 

and  white 
As    any    fair    grand-duchess    in    her 

teens. 
Which  otherwise  should  tlari3  here  in 

a  week  ? 
Benigna  sis,  thou  beauteous  Queen  of 

heaven ! " 

I  sate  there  musing,  and  imagining 

Such  utterance  from  such  faces,  poor 
blind  souls 

That  writhe  toward  heaven  along  the 
Devil's  trail: 

Who  knows,  I  thought,  but  he  may 
stretch  his  hand 

And  pick  them  up  ?  'Tis  written  in 
the  Book 

He  heareth  the  young  ravens  when 
they  cry, 

And  yet  they  cry  for  carrion.  O  mv 
God  ! 

And  we  who  make  excuses  for  the 
rest, 

W^e  do  it  in  our  measure.  Then  I 
knelt. 

And  dropped  nay  head  upon  the  pave- 
ment too. 

And  prayed  —  since  I  was  foolish  in 
desire 

Like  other  creatures,  craving  offal- 
food  — 

That  he  would  stop  his  ears  to  what  I 
said. 


142 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


And  only  listen  to  the  run  and  beat 
Of    tliis    poor,     passionate,    hclple.ss 

blood  — 

And  then 
I  lay,  and  si)oke  not;  bnt  he  heard  in 

heaven. 

So  many  Tuscan  evenings  passed  the 
same. 

I    could    not    lose  a  sunset    on    the 
bridge, 

And  would   not  miss   a  vigil   in   the 
church. 

And   liked   to   mingle   with   the  out- 
door crowd, 

So  strange  and  gay,  and  ignorant  of 
my  face; 

For  men  you  know  not  are  as  good  as 
trees> 

And  only  once,  at  the  Sautissima, 

I  almost  chanced  upon  a  man  I  knew. 

Sir  Blaise  Delorme.    He  saw  me  cer- 
tainly, 

And  somewhat  hurried,  as  he  crossed 
himself, 

The  smoothness  of  the   action;   then 
half  bowed, 

But    only    half,    and    merely   to    my 
shade, 

I  slipped  so  quick  behind  the  porphyry 
plinth, 

And  left  him  dubious  if  'twas  really  I, 

Or  pei-adventure  Satan's  usual  trick 

To  keep  a  mounting  saint  uncanon- 
ized. 

But  he  was  safe  for  that  time,  and  I 
too: 

The  argent  angels  in  the  altar-flare 

Absorbed  his  sold  next  moment.    Tlie 
good  man  ! 

In  England  we  were  scarce  acquaint- 
ances, 

Tliat  hei"e  in  Florence  he  should  keep 
my  thought 

Beyond  the  image  on  liis  eye,  which 
came 

And  went:  and  yet  his  thought  dis- 
turbed my  life; 

For  after  that  I  oftener  sat  at  home 

On  evenings,  watching  how  they  fined 
themselves 

With  gradual  conscience  to  a  perfect 
night. 

Until    the    moon,    diminished    to    a 
curve. 

Lay  out   there   like  a  sickle   for   His 
hand 

Who  Cometh  down  at  last  to  reap  the 
earth. 


At  such  times  ended  seemed  my 
trade  of  verse : 

I  feared  to  jingle  bells  upon  my  robe 

Before  the  four-faced  silent  cheru- 
bim. 

With  God  so  near  me,  could  I  sing  of 
God?. 

I  did  not  write,  nor  read,  nor  even 
think. 

But  sate  absorbed  amid  the  quicken- 
ing glooms, 

Most  like  some  passive  broken  lump 
of  salt 

Drojit  in  by  chance  to  a  bowl  of  ceno- 
mel. 

To  spoil  the  drink  a  little,  and  lose  it- 
self. 

Dissolving  slowly,  slowly,  until  lost. 


EIGHTH   BOOK. 

One  eve  it    happened,  when  I  sate 

alone. 
Alone,  upon  the  terrace  of  my  tower, 
A  book  upon  my  knees  to  counterfeit 
The  reading  that  I  never  read  at  all. 
While  Marian,  in   tlie  garden  down 

below, 
Knelt  by  the  fountain  I  could  just  hear 

thrill 
The  drowsy  silence  of  the  exhausted 

day,  " 
And  jjeeled  a  new  fig  from  that  purple 

heap 
In  the  grass  beside  her,  turning  out 

the  red 
To  feed  her  eager  child,  who  sucked 

at  it 
With  vehement  lips  across  a  gap  of 

air. 
As  he  stood  opposite,  face  and  curls- 

aflame 
With  that  last  sun-ray,  crying,  "  tiive 

me,  give  ! " 
And  stamping  with  imperious  baby- 
feet, 
(We're  all    born   princes)  something 

startled  me,  — 
The  laugh  of  sad  and  innocent  souls 

that  breaks 
Abrujitly,  as  if  frightened  at  itself. 
'Twas  Marian  laughed.      I   saw  her 

glance  abo^'e 
In  sudden  shame  that  I  should  hear 

her  laugh, 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


And  straightway   dropped    my    eyes 

upon  my  book, 
And  knew,  the  first  time,  'twas  Boc- 
caccio's tale, 
The  Falcon's,   of   the  lover  who   for 

love 
Destroyed  the  best  that  loved  him. 

Some  of  us 
Do  it  still,  and  then  we  sit,  and  laugh 

no  more. 
Laugh  ymi,  sweet  Marian,  you've  the 

right  to  laugh. 
Since  God  himself  is  for  you,  and  a 

child. 
For  me  there's  somewhat  less,  and  so 

I  sigh. 

The  heavens  were  making  room  to 
hold  the  night, 

Tlie  sevenfold  heavens  unfolding  all 
their  gates 

To  let  the  stars  out  slowly  (prophe- 
sied 

In  close-approaching  advent,  not  dis- 
cerned), 

Wliile  still  the  cue-owls  from  the  cj-- 
presses 

()i  the  Poggio  called  and  counted 
every  jjulse 

Of  the  skvev  palpitation.  Gradu- 
ally 

The  purple  and  transparent  shadows 
slow 

Had  filled  up  the  whole  valley  to  the 
brim. 

And  flooded  all  the  city,  which  you 
saw 

As  some  drowned  city  in  some  en- 
chanted sea, 

Cut  off  from  nature,  drawing  you  who 
gaze. 

With  passionate  desire,  to  leap  and 
plunge, 

And  find  a  sea-king  with  a  voice  of 
waves. 

And  treacherous  soft  eyes,  and  slip- 
perj'  locks 

You  cannot  kiss  but  you  shall  bring 
away 

Their  salt  upon  vour  lips.  The  duomo- 
bell 

Strikes  ten,  as  if  it  struck  ten  fathoms 
down, 

So  deep,  and  twenty  churches  answer 
it 

The  same,  with  twenty  various  in- 
stances. 

Some  gaslights  tremble  along  scjuares 
and  streets  ; 


The  Pitti's  palace-front  is  drawn  in 

fire  ; 
And,  past  the  quays,  Maria  Novella 

Place, 
In  which  the  mystic  obeiisks  stand 

up 
Triangular,  pyramidal,  each  based 
Upon  its  four-square  brazen  tortoises, 
To  guard  that  fair  church,  Buonarro- 
ti's Bride, 
That  stares  out  from  her  large  blind 

dial-eyes, 
(Her  quadrant  and    armillary  dials, 

black 
With    rhythms    of    many    suns    and 

moons)  in  vain 
Inquiry  for  so  rich  a  soul  as  his. 
Methinks  I  have  plunged,  I  see  it  all 

so  clear  .  .  . 
And  O  my  heart  .  .  .  the  searking ! 

In  my  ears 
The  sound  of  waters.    There  he  stood, 
my  king  ! 

I  felt  him,  rather  than  beheld  him. 

Up 
I  rose,  as  if  he  were  my  king  indeed. 
And  then  sate  down,   in  trouble  at 

myself. 
And  struggling  for  my  woman's  em- 

pery. 
'Tis  pitiful  ;  but  women  are  so  made  : 
We'll    die    for    you,    perhaps,  —  'tis 

probable  ; 
But  we'll  not  spare  you  an  inch  of  our 

full  height  : 
AVe'll  have  our  whole  just  stature,  — 

five  feet  four. 
Though  laid  out  in  our  coffins  :  piti- 
ful. 
—  "  You,  Romnev !  —  Lady  Waldemar 

is  here?" 

He  answered  in  a  voice  which  was  not 

his. 
"  I  have  her  letter  :  you  shall  read  it 

soon. 
But  first  I  must  be  heard  a  little,  I 
Who  have  waited  long  and  travelled 

far  for  that, 
Although  you  thought  to  have  shut  a 

tedious  book. 
And    farewell.      Ah,    you    dog-eared 

such  a  page, 
And  here  you  find  me." 

Did  he  touch  my  hand, 
Or  but  my  sleeve  ?    I  trembled,  hand 

and  foot  : 


144 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


He  must   have  touched  me.     "  Will 
you  sit?  "  I  asked, 

And  motioned  to  a  chair  ;  but  down 
he  sate, 

A  little  slowlJ^  as  a  man  in  doubt, 

Upon  the  couch  beside  me,  couch  and 
chair 

Being  wheeled  upon  the  terrace. 

"You  are  come, 

My  cousin  Romney  ?  This  is  wonder- 
ful. 

But  all  is  wonder  on  siich  summer- 
nights  ; 

And  nothing  should  surprise  us  any 
more, 

Who  see  that  miracle  of  stars.  Be- 
hold." 

I  signed  above,  where  all  the  stars 
were  out. 

As  if  an  urgent  heat  had  started 
there 

A  secret  writing  from  a  sombre  page, 

A  blank  last  moment,  crowded  sud- 
denly 

With  hurrying  splendors. 

"  Then  you  do  not  know  "  — 

He  murmured. 

"  Yes,  I  know,"  I  said,  "  I  know. 

I  had  the  news  from  Vincent  Carring- 
ton. 

And  yet  I  did  not  think  yovi'd  leave 
the  work 

In  England  for  so  much  even,  — 
though  of  course 

You'll  make  a  work-day  of  your  holi- 
day. 

And  turn  it  to  our  Tuscan  people's 
use,  — 

Who  much  need  helping,  since  the 
Austrian  boar 

(So  bold  to  cross  the  Alp  to  Lom- 
bard y. 

And  dash  his  brute  front  unabashed 
against 

The  steep  snow-bosses  of  that  shield 
of  God 

Who  soon  shall  rise  in  wrath,  and 
shake  it  clear) 

Came  hither  also,  raking  up  our  grape 

And  olive  gardens  with  his  tyrannous 
tusk, 

And  rolling  on  our  maize  with  all  his 
swine." 

"  You  had  the  news  from  Vincent 
Carrington," 

He  echoed,  picking  up  the  phrase  be- 
yond, 


As  if  he  knew  the  rest  was  merely  talk 

To  fill  a  gap  and  keep  out  a  strong 
wind : 

"  You  had,  then,  Vincent's  personal 
news?" 

"  His  own," 

I  answered.    "  All  that  ruined  world 
of  yours 

Seems  crumbling  into  marriage.    Car- 
rington 

Has  chosen  wisely." 

"  Do  you  take  it  so  ?  " 

He    cried,    "and    is    it    possible    at 
last"  ... 

He  paused  there,  and   then,  inward 
to  himself, — 

"  Too  much  at  last,  too  late  !  yet  cer- 
tainly" .  .  . 

(And  there  his  voice  swayed  as  an 
Alpine  plank 

That  feels  a  passionate  torrent  under- 
neath) 

"The  knowledge,  had   I    known    it 
first  or  last. 

Could  scarce  have  changed  the  actual 
case  for  me, 

And  best  for  her  at  this  time." 

Nay,  I  thought. 

He  loves  Kate  Ward,  it  seems,  now, 
like  a  man. 

Because  he  has  married  Lady  Walde- 
mar  ! 

Ah,  Vincent's  letter  said  how  Leigh 
was  moved 

To  hear  that  Vincent  was  betrothed 
to  Kate. 

With  what  cracked  pitchers  go  we  to 
deep  wells 

In  this  world!    Then  I  spoke, — "I 
did  not  think. 

My  cousin,  you  had  ever  known  Kate 
Ward'." 

"In   fact    I    never    knew   her.      'Tis 

enough 
That  Vincent  did,  and  therefore  chose 

liis  wife 
For  other  reasons  than  those  topaz 

eyes 
We've  heard  of.    Not  to  undervalue 

them. 
For  all  that.    One  takes  up  the  world 

with  eyes." 

—  Including  Romney  Leigh,  I  thought 

again, 
Albeit  he  knows  them  only  by  repute. 
How  vile  must  all  men  be,  since  lie's 

a  man  ! 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


145 


His    deep    pathetic    voice,    as    if    lie 

guessed 
I  did  not  surely  love  liim,  took   the 

word : 
"  You  never  got  a  letter  from  Lord 

Howe 
A  month  back,  dear  Aurora  ?  " 

"None,"  I  said. 

"  I  felt  it  was  so,"  he  replied.    "  Yet, 

strange  ! 
Sir  Blaise  Delorme  has  passed  through 

Florence?" 

"Ay, 
By  chance  I  saw  him  in  Our  Lady's 

Church, 
(I  saw  him,  mark  you;  but  he  saw  not 

me) 
Clean-washed  in  holy  water  from  the 

count 
Of    things    terrestrial,  —  letters    and 

the  rest: 
He  had  crossed  us  out  together  with 

his  sins. 
Ay,   strange;  but  only  strange  that 

good  Lord  Howe 
Preferred  him  to  the  post  because  of 

pauls. 
For  me,  I'm  sworn  to  never  trust  a 

man  — 
At  least  with  letters." 

"  There  were  facts  to  tell. 
To    smooth    with    eye    and    accent. 

Howe  supposed  .  .  . 
Well,   well,    no    matter !    there    was 

dubious  need: 
You  heard  the   news  from  Vincent 

Carrington. 
And  yet  perhaps  you  had  been  star- 
tled less 
To  see  me,  deai  y^urora,  if  you  had 

read 
That  letter." 

—  Now  he  sets  me  down  as  vexed. 
I  think  I've  draped  myself  in  wo- 
man's pride 
To    a     perfect     puri^ose.     Oh,    I'm 

vexed,  it  seems ! 
My  friend    Lord  Howe  deputes  his 

friend  Sir  Blaise 
To  break,  as  sof  ;ly  as  a  sparrow's  egg 
That  lets  a  bird    ovit    tenderly,   the 

news 
Of  Eomney's  marriage  to  a  certain 

saint, 
To  smooth  ivith  eye  and  accent,  —  indi- 
cate 
His    jjossible    presence.     Excellently 

well 


You've    played  j'our  jiart,  my  Lady 
Waldemar,  — 

As  I've  played  mine. 

"  Dear  Eomney,"  I  began, 

"  You  did  not  use  of  old  to  be  so 
like 

A  Greek  king  coming  from  a  taken 
Troy 

'Twas  needful  that  iirecursors  spread 
your  path 

With   three-piled  carpets  to  receive 
your  foot. 

And  dull  the  sound  oft.    For  myself, 
be  sure, 

Although  it  frankly  grinds  the  gravel 
here, 

I  still  can  bear  it.    Yet  I'm  sorry,  too, 

To  lose  this  famous  letter,  which  Sir 
Blaise 

Has  twisted  to  a  lighter  absently 

To  fire  some  holy  taper.    Dear  Lord 
Howe 

Writes  letters  good  for  all  things  but 
to  lose : 

And  many  a  flower  of  London  gos- 
sipry 

Has    dropt    wherever    sucli    a    stem 
broke  off. 

Of  course  I  feel  that,  lonely  among 
my  vines, 

Where  nothing's  talked  of,  save  the 
blight  again. 

And  no  more  Chianti  I     Still  the  let- 
ter's use 

As  preparation  .  .  .    Did  I  start  in- 
deed ? 

Last  night  I  started  at  a  cockchafer, 

And  shook  a  half-hour  after.    Have 
you  learnt 

No  more  of  women,  'spite  of  jirivi- 
lege, 

Than  still  to  take  account  too  seri- 
ously 

Of  such  weak  flutterings  ?    Why,  we 
like  it,  sir: 

We  get  our  powers  and  our  effects 
that  way. 

The  trees  stand  stiff  and  still  at  time 
of  frost. 

If  no  wind  tears  them ;   but  let  sum- 
mer come, 

When  trees  are  happy,  and  a  breath 
avails 

To  set  them  trembling  through  a  mil- 
lion leaves 

In    luxury    of    emotion.     Something 
less 

It  takes  to  move  a  woman:  let  her 
start 


146 


AVROllA  LEIGH. 


And  shake  at  pleasure,  nor  conclude 

at  yours, 
The  winter's  bitter,  but  the  summer's 

green." 

He  answered,  "  Be  the  summer  eA'er 

greeu 
With  you,  Aurora  !  though  you  sweep 

your  sex 
With "  somewhat    bitter    gusts    from 

where  you  live 
Above    them,    whirling     downward 

from  your  heights 
Your  very  oVn  pine-cones,  in  a  grand 

disdain 
Of  the  lowland  burrs  with  which  you 

scatter  them. 
Ho  high  and  cold  to  others  and  vour- 

self, 
A  little  less  to  llomney  were  unjust, 
And  thus,   I   would   not    have    you. 

Let  it  pass : 
I  feel  content  so.     You  can  bear,  in- 
deed, 
]SIy  sudden  steji  beside  you:   but  for 

me, 
'Twould  move  me  sore  to  hear  your 

softened  voice,— 
Aurora's     voice,  —  if     softened     un- 
aware 
In  pity  of  what  I  am." 

Ah,  friend  !  I  thought. 
As  husband  of  the  Lady  Waldemar 
You're  granted  very  sorely  pitiable; 
And  yet  Aurora  Leigh  must  guard 

her  voice 
From   softening   in   the  pity  of  your 

case, 
As  if  from  lie  or  license.     Certainly 
We'll  soak  up  all  the  slush  and  soil  of 

life 
With  softened  A^oices,  ere  we  come  to 

you. 

At    which    I    interrupted    my    own 

thought, 
And  spoke  out  calmly.     "  Let  us  pon- 
der, friend, 
Whate'er    our  state,    we  must  have 

made  it  first; 
And   though   the  thing  displease  us, 

ay,  jierhaps 
Displease      us     warrantably,     never 

doubt 
That  other  states,   thought    possible 

once,  and  then 
Kejected  by  the  instinct  of  our  lives. 
If    then   adopted,  had  displeased  us 

more 


Than  this  in  which  the  choice,  the 

will,  the  love. 
Has  stamped  the  honor  of  a  patent 

act 
From  henceforth.     What  we  choose 

may  not  be  good; 
But  that  we  choose  it  proves  it  good 

for  us 
Potentially,  fantastically,  now 
Or  last  year,  rather  than  a  thing  we 

saw. 
And  saw  no  need  for  choosing.    Moths 

will  burn 
Their    wings,  —  which     proves    that 

light  is  good  for  moths. 
Who  else  had  flown  not  where  they 

agonize." 

"Ay,  light  is  good,"  lie  echoed,  and 

there  paused; 
And     then     abruptly  ..."  Marian. 

Marian's  well  ?  " 

I  bowed  my  head,  Viut  found  no  word. 

'Twas  hard 
To  speak  of  her  to  Lady  Waldemar's 
New  husband.     How  much    did   he 

know,  at  last  ? 
How  much  ?  how  little  ?    He  would 

take  no  sign. 
But  straight  repeated,  —  "  Marian.    Is 

she  well '?" 

"  She's  well,"  I  ansAvered. 

She  was  there  in  sight 
An    hoiir   back;    but    the   night   had 

drawn  her  home, 
Where  still  I  heanl  her  in  an  upper 

room, 

3W  A'C 

bed. 
Who,  restless  with  the  summer-heat 

and  play. 
And  slumber  snatched  at  noon,  was 

long  sometimes 
In   falling  off,   and   took  a  score  of 

songs 
And  mother  hushes  ere  she  saw  him 

sound. 

"  She's  well,"  I  answered. 

"Here?"  he  asked. 
"  Yes,  here." 

He  stopped  and  sighed.     "  That  shall 

be  presently; 
But  now  this  must  be.    I  have  words 

to  say, 


"  I'm  thinking,  Romnev,  how  'twas  morning  then 
And  now,  'tis  night."  —  Page  147. 


i£dL<FOf 


AURORA   LKIGII. 


u: 


i 

i 


And  would  be   alone  to  say  them,  I 

with  j'ou, 
And  no  third  troubling." 

"  Speak,  then,"  I  returned, 
"  She  will  not  vex  you." 

At  which,  suddenly 
He  turned  his  face  upon  me  with  its 

smile. 
As  if    to  crush  me.     "  I    have  read 

your  book, 
Aurora." 

"  You  have  read  it,"  I  replied, 
"  And  I  have  writ  it^we  have  done 

with  it. 
And  now  the  rest  ?  " 

"  The  rest  is  like  the  first," 
He  answered,  "  for  the  book  is  in  my 

heart, 
Lives  in  me,  wakes  in  me,  and  dreams 

in  me : 
My  daily  bread  tastes  of  it;  and  my 

wine 
"Which  has  no  smack  of  it,  —  I  pour  it 

out. 
It  seem  unnatural  drinking." 

Bitterly 
I  took  the  word  up:  "  Never  waste 

your  wine. 
The  book  lived  in  me  ere  it  lived  in 

you ; 
I  know  it  closer  than  another  does. 
And    how    it's    foolish,    feeble,    and 

afraid, 
And  all  unworthy  so  much  compli- 
ment. 
Beseech  you,   keep  your  wine,  and, 

when  you  drink, 
Still  wish  some  happier  fortune  to  a 

friend 
Thau  even  to  have  written  a  far  better 

book." 

He  answered  gently:  "  That  is  conse- 
quent. 
The  poet  looks  beyond  the  book  he 

has  made. 
Or  else  he  had  not  made  it.     If  a  man 
Could  make  a  man,  he'd  henceforth 

be  a  god 
In  feeling  what  a  little  thing  is  man: 
It  is  not  my  case.     And   this  special 

book, 
I  did  not  make  it,  to  make  light  of  it: 
It  stands  above  my  knowledge,  draws 

me  up; 
'Tis  high  to  me.     It  may  be  that  the 
book 


Is  not  so  high,  but  I  so  low,  instead; 
Still  high  to  me.     I  mean  no  compli- 
ment: 
I  will  not  saj'  there  are  not,  j'oung  or 

old, 
Male   writers,   ay,   or    female,   let  it 

pass. 
Who'll  write  us  richer  and  completer 

books. 
A  man  may  love  a  woman  perfectly. 
And    yet    by    no    means    ignorantly 

maintain 
A  thousand  women  have  not  larger 

eyes: 
Enough  that  she  alone  has  looked  at 

him 
With  eyes  that,  large  or  small,  have 

won  his  soul. 
And  so,  this  book,  Aurora,  —  so,  vour 

book." 

"  Alas  !  "   I  answered,  "  is  it  so,  in- 
deed ?  " 

And  then  was  silent. 

"  Is  it  so, indeed," 

He  echoed,   "  that    alas    is    all   vour 
word?" 

I   said,    "  I'm    thinking    of    a  far-off 
June, 

When  you  and  I,  upon  my  birthday, 
once, 

Discoursed  of  life  and  art,  with  both 
untried. 

I'm    thinking,    Romncy,    how    "twas 
morning  then. 

And  now  'tis  night." 

"  And  now,"  he  said,  "  'tis  night." 

"I'm    thinking,"    I    resumed,    "'tis 

somewhat  sad. 
That  if  I  had  known,  that  morning  in 

the  dew. 
My  cousin  Romney  would  have  said 

such  words 
On    such  a  night  at  close  of    many 

years, 
In  speaking  of  a  future  book  of  mine. 
It  would  have  pleased  me  better  as  a 

hope 
Than  as  an  actual  grace   it    can    at 

all: 
That's  sad,  I'm  thinking." 

"  Ay,"  he  .said,  "  'tis  night." 

"And  there,"  I  added  lightly,  "are 

the  stars  ; 
And  here  we'll  talk  of  stars,  and  not 

of  books." 


148 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


"  You  have  the  stars,"  he  uiiirmnreil, 
—  it  is  well : 

Be  like  them.    Shine,  Aurora,  on  my 
dark, 

Though  liigh  and  cold,  and  only  like  a 
star. 

And  for  this  short  night  only,  —  yon 
who  keep 

The  same  Aurora  of  the  bright  June 
day 

That  withered  up  the  flowers  before 
my  face, 

And  turned  me  from  the  garden  ever- 
more. 

Because  I  Avas  not  worthy.     Oli,  de- 
served. 

Deserved  !  tliat  I,  who  verily  had  not 
learnt 

God's  lesson  half,  attaining  as  a  dunce 

To   obliterate  good  words  with  frac- 
tious thumbs. 

And  cheat  myself  of  the  context,  — 
/  should  push 

Aside,  with  male  ferocious  impudence. 

The  world's  Aurora,  who  had  conned 
her  part 

On  the  other  side  the  leaf !  ignore  her 
so. 

Because    she   was    a  woman    and    a 
queen. 

And  had  no  beard  to  liristle  through 
her  song, 

My  teacher,  who  has  taught  me  with 
a  book, 

]SIy  Miriam,  whose  sweet  mouth,  when 
nearly  drowned, 

I  still  heard  singing  on  the  shore  ! 
Deserved, 

That  here  I  should  look  up  unto  the 
stars. 

And  miss  the  glory  "... 

"  Can  I  understand  ?  " 

I    broke    in.      "  You    speak    wildly, 
Romney  Leigh, 

Or  I  hear  wildly.     In  that  morning- 
time 

We  recollect,  the  roses  were  too  red. 

The  trees  too  green,  reproach  too  nat- 
ural 

If  one  should  see  not  what  the  other 
saw  : 

And   now  it's   night,  rememlier  ;   we 
have  shades 

In  i)lace  of  colors  ;  we  are  now  grown 
cold 

And  old,  my  cousin  Romney.    Pardon 
me, — 

I'm  very  happy  that  you  like  my  book, 

And  very  sorry  that'l  quoted  back 


A  ten-years'  birthday.     'Twas  so  mad 

a  thing 
In  any  woman,  I  scarce  marvel  much 
You  took  it  for  a  venturous  piece  of 

spite. 
Provoking  such  excuses  as  indeed 
I  cannot  call  you  slack  in." 

"  Understand," 
He   answered   sadly,    "something,    if 

but  so. 
This  night  is  softer  than  an  English 

day, 
And  men  may  well  come  hither  when 

they're  sick. 
To  draw  in  easier  breath  from  larger 

air. 
'Tis  thus  with   me  :  I  come  to  you,  — 

to  you. 
My  Italy  of  women,  just  to  breathe 
My  soul  out  once  before  you,  ere  I 

go, 
As  humble  as  God  makes  me  at  the 

last, 
(I  thank  him)  quite  out  of  the  way  of 

men. 
And  yours,  Aurora,  —  like  a  punished 

child. 
His  cheeks  all  blurred  with  tears  and 

naughtiness. 
To  silence  in  a  corner.     I  ain  come 
To  speak,  Ijeloved"  .  .  . 

"Wisely,  cousin  Leigh, 
And  worthily  of  us  both." 

"  Yes,  worthily  ; 
For  this  time  I  must  speak  out,  and 

confess 
That   I,   so  truculent  in  assumption 

once. 
So  absolute  in  dogma,  proud  in  aim. 
And   fierce  in  expectation,  —  I,  wlio 

felt 
The  whole  world  tugging  at  my  skirts 

for  help, 
As  if  no  other  man  than  I  could  pull. 
Nor  woman,  but  I  led  her  by  the  hand. 
Nor  cloth  hold,   but  I   had  it  in   my 

coat,  — 
Do  know  myself  to-night  for  what  I 

was 
On    that    Jnne-day,    Aurora.      Poor 

bright  day. 
Which  meant  the  best  ...  a  woman 

and  a  rose. 
And  which  I  smote  upon  the  cheek 

with  words. 
Until  it  turned  and  rent  me.     Young 

you  were. 
That  birthday,  poet ;  but  you  talked 

the  right :  '- 


i 


1 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


140 


While  I  ...  I  built  np  follies,  like  a 

wall, 
To  intercept   the   sunshine  and    your 

face. 
Your  face  !  that's  worse." 

"  Sjiealv  wisely,  cousin  Leigh." 

"  Yes,  wisely,  dear  Aurora,  though  too 

late, 
But  then,  not  wisely.     I  was  heavy 

then, 
And  stupid,  and  distracted  with  the 

cries 
Of  tortured  prisoners  in  the  polished 

brass 
Of  that  Phalarian  bull,  society, 
Which  seems   to  bellow  bravely  like 

ten  bulls, 
But,  if  you  listen,  moans  and  cries 

instead       • 
Despairingly,  like  victims  tossed  and 

gored 
And  trampled  by  their  hoofs.    I  heard 

the  cries 
Too  close  :  I  could  not  hear  the  angels 

lift 
A  fold  of  rustling  air,  nor  what  they 

said 
To    help    my    pity.      I    beheld    the 

world 
As  one  great   famishing  carnivorous 

mouth,  — 
A  huge,  deserted,  callow,  blind  bird 

thing. 
With  piteous  open  beak  that  hurt  my 

heart, 
Till   down   upon    the  fllthy  ground  I 

dropped,  • 
And   tore  the  violets   up  to  get  the 

worms. 
Worms,  worms,  was  all   my  cry:   an 

open  mouth, 
A  gross  want,  bread  to  fill  it  to  the 

lips, 
No  more.    That  poor  men  narrowed 

their  demands 
To   such   an   end   was  virtue,   I   sujv 

posed. 
Adjudicating  that  to  see  it  so 
Was  reason.    Oh,  I  did  not  imsh  the 

case 
Up  higher,  and  ponder  how  it  answers 

when 
The   rich   take  np  the  same  cry  for 

themselves. 
Professing       equally,  —  '  An       open 

mouth 
A  gross  need,  food  to  fill  us,  and  no 

more.'  « 


Why,  that's  so  far  from  virtue,  only 

vice 
Can  lind  excuse  for't !    that  makes 

libertines. 
And  slurs  our  cruel  streets  from  end 

to  end 
With  eighty  thousand  women  in  one 

smile. 
Who  only  smile  at  night  beneath  the 

gas. 
The     body's     satisfaction,     and     no 

more, 
Is    used    for    argument    against    th(^ 

soul's. 
Here  too:  the  want,  here  too,  implies 

the  right. 
—  How  dark  I  stood  that  morning  in 

the  sun. 
My  best  Aurora  (though  I  saw  your 

eyes) 
When   first  you   told   me  .  .  .  oh,   I 

recollect 
The  sound,  and  how  you  lifted  your 

small  hand, 
And  how  your  white  dress  and  your 

burnished  curls 
Went  greatening  round  you  in   the 

still  blue  air. 
As  if  an  inspiration  from  within 
Had   blown  them   all   out  when  you 

spoke  the  words. 
Even  these, — '  You  will  not  compass 

your  poor  ends 
Of  barley-feeding  and  material  ease 
Without  the  poet's  individualism 
To  work  your  universal.     It  takes  a 

soul 
o  move  a  body;    it  takes   a  high- 
soul  ed  man 
o    move    the     masses    even    to    a 

cleaner  sty; 
It  takes  the  ideal  to  blow  an  inch  in- 
side 

The    dust  of    the  actual;    and   your 
\  Fouriers  failed, 

\Because  not  poets  enough  to  under- 
stand 
That  life  develops   from  within.'     I 

say 
Your     words:     I     could     say    other 

words  of  yours; 
For  none  of  all  your  words  will  let 

me  go, 
Like    sweet    verbena,    which,   being 

brushed  against, 
Will  hold  us  three  hours  after  by  the 

smell. 
In  sjiite  of  long  walks  upon  windy 

hills. 


150 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


But  tliese  words  dealt  in  sharper  per- 
fume; these 

Were  ever  on  me,  stinging  through 
my  dreams, 

And  saying  themselves   forever  o'er 
my  acts 

Like  some  unhappy  verdict.      That 
I  failed 

Is  certain.     Sty  or  no    sty,   to    con- 
trive 

The   swine's   propulsion  toward  the 
precipice 

Proved  easy  and  plain.     I  subtly  or- 
ganized 

And  ordered,  built  the  cards  up  high 
and  higher. 

Till,  some  one  breathing,  all  fell  flat 
again: 

In  setting  right  society's  wide  wrong. 

Mere  life's  so  fatal  !     So  I  failed  in- 
deed 

Once,    twice,    and    oftener,    hearing 
through  the  rents 

Of  obstinate  purpose,  still  those  words 
of  yours,  — 

'  You  loill  not  compass  yovr  poor  ends, 
not  yon  ! ' 

But  harder  than  you  said  them;  every 
time 

Still  farther  from  your  voice,   until 
they  came 

To    overcrow    me    with    triumphant 
scorn, 

"Which  vexed  me  to  resistance.     Set 
down  this 

For  condemnation.    I  was  guilty  here ; 

I  stood  upon  my  deed,  and  fought  my 
doubt, 

As   men   will,  —  fori   doubted,  —  till 
at  last 

My  deed  gave  way  beneath  me  sud- 
denly, 

And  left  me  what  I  am.     The  curtain 
dropped. 

My  part  quite  ended,   all   the    foot- 
lights quenched, 

My  own  soul  hissing  at  me   through 
the  dark, 

I  ready  for  confession,  —  I  was  wrong, 

I've  sorely   failed,   I've  slipped    the 
ends  of  life, 

I  yield:  you  have  conquered." 

"  Stay,"  I  answered  him: 

"  I've    something    for  your  lieariug, 
also.    I 

Have  failed  too." 

"  You  !  "  he  said,  "  you're  very  great: 

The    sadness  of  your    greatness   tits 
you  well. 


As  if  the  plume  upon  a  hero's  casque 
Should   nod  a  shadow  ujion   his  vic- 
tor's face." 

I  took  him  up  austerely,  —  "  Yon  have 
read 

My  book,  but  not  my  heart;  for,  recol- 
lect, 

'Tis  writ  in  Sanscrit,  which  you  bun- 
gle at. 

I've  surely  failed,  I  know,  if  failure 
means 

To  look  back  sadly  on  work  gladly 
done. 

To  wander  on  my  Mountains  of  De- 
light, 

So  called,  (I  can  remember  a  friend's 
words 

As  well  as  you,  sir)  weary,  and  in 
want  • 

Of  even  a  sheei>path,  thinking  bit- 
terly .  .  . 

Well,  well  !  no  matter.  I  but  say  so 
much , 

To  keep  j'ou,  Romney  Leigh,  from 
saying  more. 

And  let  you  feel  I  am  not  so  high  in- 
deed. 

That  I  can  bear  to  have  you  at  my 
foot. 

Or  safe,  that  I  can  help  you.  That 
June  day. 

Too  deeply  sunk  in  craterous  sunsets 
now 

For  you  or  me  to  dig  it  up  alive; 

To  jiluck  it  out  all  bleeding  with 
spent  flame 

At  tlie  roots,  before  those  moralizing 
stars 

We  have  got  in.stead,  —  that  poor  lost 
day,  you  said 

Some  words  as  truthful  as  the  thing 
of  mine 

You  cared  to  keep  in  memory;  and  I 
hold 

If  I  that  day,  and  l)eing  the  girl  I 
was. 

Had  shown  a  gentler  si)irit,  less  arro- 
gance. 

It  had  not  hurt  me.  You  will  scarce 
mistake 

The  point  here.  I  but  only  think,  you 
see, 

More  justly,  that's  more  humbly  of 
myself, 

Than  when  I  tried  a  crown  on,  and 
supposed  .  .  . 

Nay,  laugh,  sir,  —  I'll  laugh  with  you  ! 
—  pray  you  laugh.  ^ 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


151 


I've  had  so  man y  birthdaj'S  since  that 

day, 
I've  learnt  to  prize  mirth's  opportu- 
nities, 
Which  come  too  seldom.    "Was  it  you 

who  said 
I   was   not  clianged  ?  the  same  Au- 
rora?   Ah, 
We  could  laugh   there  too !      Why, 

Ulysses'  dog 
Knew  him,  and  wagged  his  tail  and 

died;  but  if 
I  had  owned  a  dog,  I  too,  before  my 

Troy, 
And  if  you  brought  liim  here  ...  I 

warrant  you 
He'd  look  into  my  face,  bark  lustily. 
And  live  on  stoutly,  as  the  creatures 

will 
Whose    spirits  are  not  troubled    by 

long  loves. 
A  dog  would  never  know  me,  I'm  so 

changed. 
Much   less  a  friend  .  .  .  except  that 

you're  misled 
By  the  color  of  the  hair,  the  trick  of 

the  voice, 
Like  that  Aurora  Leigh's." 

"  Sweet  trick  of  voice  ! 
I  would  be  a  dog  for  this,  to  know  it 

at  last, 
And  die  upon  the  falls  of  it.     O  love, 

0  best  Aurora !  are  you  then  so  sad 
You  scarcelv  had  been  sadder  as  mv 

wife?'" 

"  your  wife,  sir  !     I  must  certainly  be 

changed, 
If  I,  Aurora,  can  have  said  a  thing 
So  light,  it  catches   at  the  knightly 

spurs 
Of  a  noble  gentleman  like  Romney 

Leigh, 
And  trips  him  from    his    honorable 

sense 
Of  what  befits  "... 

"  You  wholly  misconceive," 
He  answered. 

I  returned,  —  "  I'm  glad  of  it. 
But    keep   from   misconception,   too, 

yourself: 

1  am  not  humbled  to  so  low  a  point, 
Nor  so  far  saddened.     It  I  am  sad  at 

all. 
Ten  layers  of  birthdays  on  a  woman's 

head 
Are  apt  to  fossilize  her  girlish  mirth. 
Though  ne'er  so  merry:  I'm  perforce 

mor§  wise, 


And  that,   in    truth,   means    sadder. 

For  the  rest. 
Look  here,  sir:  I  was  right,  upon  the 

whole, 
That  birthday  morning.     'Tis  impos- 
sible 
To  get    at    men    excepting    through 

their  souls. 
However     open     their     carnivorous 

jaws; 
And  poets  get  directlier  at  the  soul 
Than    any  of    your  economists;    for 

which 
You  must  not    overlook    the    poet's 

work 
When  scheming  for  the  world's  neces- 
sities. 
The  soul's  the  way.     Not  even  Christ 

himself 
Can  save  man  else  than  as  he  holds 

man's  soul; 
And  therefore  did  he  come  into  our 

flesh, 
As  some  wise  hunter,  creeping  on  his 

knees 
With  a  torch,  into  the  blackness  of  a 

cave. 
To  face  and  quell  the  beast  there,  — 

take  the  soul. 
And  so  possess  the  whole  man,  body 

and  soul. 
I  said,  so  far,  right,  yes;  not  farther, 

though : 
We  both  were  wrong  that  June  daj-, 

— both  as  wrong 
As  an   east  wind  had   been.     I  who 

talked  of  art. 
And   you  who  grieved  for  all  men's 

griefs  .  .  .  what  then  ? 
We  surely  made  too  small  a  part  for 

God 
In  these  things.    What  we  are  im- 
ports us  more 
Than  what  we  eat;   and    life,  you've 

granted  me, 
Develops   from   within.      But    inner- 
most 
Of  the   inmost,  most  interior  of  the 

interne, 
God  claims  his  own,  divine  humanity 
Renewing  nature;   or  the  piercingest 

verse, 
Prest  in   by  sulitlest   poet  still  must 

keep 
As  much  upon  the  outside  of  a  man 
As  the  very  bowl   in  which   he   dips 

his  l)eard. 
—  And   then  .  .  .  the   rest;   I  cannot 

surely  si)eak: 


152 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Perhaps    I    doubt    more    than    you 

doubted  then, 
If  I  the  poet's  veritable  charge 
Have  borne  upon  my  forehead.     If  I 

have, 
It  might  feel  somewhat    liker  to    a 

crown, 
The  foolish  green  one,  even.     Ah,  I 

think. 
And  chiefly  when  the  sun  shines,  that 

I've  failed. 
But  what    then,  Romuey  ?    Though 

we  fail  indeed, 
You  ...  I  ...  a  score  of  such  weak 

workers  .  .  .  He 
Fails  never.    If  he  cannot  work  by 

us, 
He  will  work  over  us.    Does  he  want 

a  man, 
Much    less    a    woman,    think    you? 

Every  time 
The  star  winks  there,  so  many  souls 

are  born, 
Who  all  shall  work  too.    Let  our  own- 
be  calm: 
We  should  be  ashamed  to  sit  beneath 

those  stars. 
Impatient  that  we're  nothing." 

"  Could  we  sit 
Just  so  forever,  sweetest  friend,"  he 

said, 
"  My  failure  would  seem  better  than 

success. 
And  yet  indeed  your  book  has  dealt 

with  me 
More  gently,  cousin,  than  vou  ever 

will. 
Your  book  brought  down  entire  the 

bright  .June  day. 
And  set  me  wandering  in  the  garden- 
walks, 
And  let  me  watch  the  garland  in  a 

place 
You  blushed  so  .  .  .  nay,  forgive  me, 

do  not  stir; 
I   only   thank   the   book  for   what   it 

taught. 
And    what    permitted.      Poet    doubt 

yourself. 
But  never  doubt  that  you're  a  poet  to 

me 
From  henceforth.    You  have  written 

poems,  sweet, 
Which  moved  me  in  secret,  as  the  sap 

is  moved 
In  still  March  branches,  signless  as  a 

stone ; 
But  this  last  book  o'ercame  rae  like 

soft  rain 


Which   falls   at   midnight,  when  the 

tightened  bark 
Breaks  out  into  unhesitating  buds, 
And    sudden    x'l'otestations    of    the 

spring. 
In  all  your  other  books   I  saw  but 

yoii. 
A  man,  may  see  the  moon  so,  in  a 

pond. 
And  not  be  nearer  therefore  to  the 

moon, 
Nor    use    the    sight  .  .  .  except    to 

drown  himself: 
And  so  I  forced  my  heart  back  from 

the  sight. 
For  what  had  /,  I  thought,  to  do  with 

her, 
Aurora  .  .  .  Romney?    But    in    this 

last  book 
You  showed  me  something  separate 

from  yourself. 
Beyond  you,  and  I  bore  to  take  it  in. 
And  let  it  draw  me.    You  have  shown 

me  truths, 
O  June-day  friend,  that  help  me  now 
\        at  night 
When  June  is  over, —  truths  not  yours, 

indeed, 
But  set  within  my  reach  by  means  of 

you, 
Presented  by  your  voice  and  verse 

the  way 
To  take  them  clearest.     Verily  I  was 

wrong; 
And  verily  many  thinkers  of  this  age, 
Ay,  many  Christian  teachers,  half  in 

heaven, 
Are  wrong  in  just  my  sense  who  un- 
derstood 
Our  natural  world  too  insularly,  as  if 
No  spiritual  counterpart  completed  it. 
Consummating  its  meaning,  rounding 

all 
To    justice  and    perfection,   line    by 

line. 
Form  by  form,   nothing    single    nor 

alone. 
The    great    below    clinched    by    the 

great  above. 
Shade  here  authenticating  substance 

there. 
The  body  piroving  spirit,  as  the  effect 
The  cause:  we  meantime  being  too 

grossly  apt 
To  hold  the  natural,  as  dogs  a  bone, 
(Though  reason  and  nature  beat  us  in 

the  face) 
So  obstinately  that  we'll   break  our 

teeth 


AURORA    LEIGH. 


153 


Or  ever  we  let  go.  For  everywliere 
"We're  too  materialistic,  eating  clay, 
(Like   men  of    the  west)  instead  of 

Adam's  corn 
And  Noah's  wine,  —  clay  by  handfuls, 

clay  by  lumps, 
Until   we're  filled  up   to  the  throat 

with  clay, 
And    grow    the    grimy   color  of    the 

ground 
On  which  we  are  feeding.     Ay,  mate- 
rialist 
The  age's  name  is.    God  himself,  with 

some. 
Is  aj^prehended  as  the  bare  result 
Of    what    his    hand    materially    has 

made, 
Expressed  in  such  an  algebraic  sign 
Called  God;  that  is,  to  put  it  otlier- 

wise, 
They  add   up  nature  to  a  nought  of 

God, 
And  cross  the  quotient.    There  are 

many  even, 
"Whose    names    are    written    in    the 

Christian  church 
To  no  dishonor,  diet  still  on  miid, 
And  splash  the  altars  with  it.    You 

might  think 
The  clay  Christ  laid  upon  their  eye- 
lids, when. 
Still  blind,  he  called  them  to  the  use 

of  sight, 
Remained  there  to  retard    its   exer- 
cise 
"With   clogging    incrustations.     Close 

to  heaven, 
They  see  for  mysteries,  through  the 

ojien  doors, 
Vague  puffs  of  smoke  from  pots  of 

earthenware. 
And  fain  would   enter,   when    their 

time  shall  come, 
"With   quite    another   body   than    St. 

Paul 
Has  25romised, — husk  and  chaff,  the 

whole  barley-corn, 
Or  Where's  the  resurrection  ?  " 

"  Thus  it  is," 
I    sighed.    And    he    resumed    with 

mournful  face. 
"  Beginning  so,  and  filling  up  with 

clay 
The  wards  of  this  great  key,  the  natu- 
ral world. 
And  fumbling  vainly  therefore  at  the 

lock 
Of   the  spiritual,   we  feel    ourselves 

shut  in 


"With  all  the  wild-beast  roar  of  strug- 
gling life, 

The  terrors  and  compunctions  of  our 
souls, 

As  saints  with  lions,  —  we  who  are 
not  saints, 

And  have  no  heavenly  lordship  in 
*  our  stare 

To  awe  them  backward.  Ay,  we  are 
forced,  so  pent, 

To  judge  the  whole  too  partially  .  .  . 
confound 

Conclusions.  Is  there  any  common 
phrase 

Significant,  with  the  adverb  heard 
alone, 

The  verb  being  absent,  and  the  pro- 
noun out  ? 

But  we,  distracted  in  the  roar  of 
life, 

Still  insolently  at  God's  adverb 
snatch, 

And  bruit  against  him  that  his  thought 
is  void. 

His  meaning  hopeless,  —  cry,  that 
everywhere 

The  government  is  slipping  from  his 
hand. 

Unless  some  other  Christ  (say  Rom- 
ney  Leigh) 

Come  up  and  toil  and  moil  and  change 
the  world, 

Because  the  First  has  proved  inade- 
quate. 

However  we  talk  bigly  of  his  work 

And  piously  of  his  person.  "We  blas- 
pheme 

At  last,  to  finish  our  doxology. 

Despairing  on  the  earth  for  which  he 
died." 

"  So  now,"  I  asked,  "  you  have  more 
hope  of  men?" 

"  I  hope,"  he  answered.     "  I  am  come 

to  think 
That  God  will  have  his  work  done,  as 

you  said, 
And  that  we  need  not  be  disturbed 

too  much 
For  Romney  Leigh  or  others  having 

failed 
"With  this  or  that  quack  nostrum, — 

recipes 
For  keeping    summits   by  annulling 

depths, 
For  wrestling  with  luxurious   loun- 
ging sleeves, 
And  acting  heroism  without  a  scratch. 


154 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


We  fail,  —  what  then?  Aixrora,  if  I 
smiled 

To  see  you,  in  your  lovely  morning- 
pride, 

Try  on  the  j^oet's  wreath  which  suits 
the  noon, 

(Sweet  cousin,  walls  must  get  the 
weather-stain 

Before  they  grow  the  ivy)  certainly 

I  stood  myself  there  worthier  of  con- 
tempt, 

Self  rated,  in  disastrous  arrogance. 

As  competent  to  sorrow  for  mankind 

And  even  their  odds.  A  man  may 
well  despair, 

Who  counts  himself  so  needful  to 
success. 

I  failed:  I  throw  the  remedy  back  on 
God, 

And  sit  down  here  beside  you,  in 
good  hope." 

"And  yet  take  heed,"  I  answered, 
"  lest  we  lean 

Too  dangerously  on  the  other  side, 

And  so  fail  twice.  Be  sure,  no  ear- 
nest work 

Of  any  honest  creature,  howbeit 
weak, 

Imperfect,  ill-adapted,  fails  so  much 

It  is  not  gathered  as  a  grain  of  sand 

To  enlarge  the  sum  of  human  action 
iised 

For  carrying  out  God's  end.  No  crea- 
ture works 

So  ill,  observe,  that  therefore  he's 
cashiered. 

The  honest  earnest  man  must  stand 
and  work. 

The  woman  also:  otherwise  she 
drops 

At  once  below  the  dignity  of  man, 

Accepting  serfdom.  Free  men  freely 
work. 

Whoever  fears  God  fears  to  sit  at 
ease." 

He  cried,  "  True.  After  Adam,  work 
was  curse : 

The  natural  creature  labors,  sweats, 
and  frets. 

But,  after  Christ,  work  turns  to  privi- 
lege, 

And  henceforth,  one  with  our  human- 
ity, 

The  Six-day  Worker,  working  still  in 
us. 

Has  called  us  freely  to  work  on  with 
him 


In  high  companionship.  So,  hajv 
piest ! 

I  count  that  heaven  itself  is  only 
work 

To  a  surer  issue.  Let  us  work,  in- 
deed, 

But  no 'more  work  as  Adam,  nor  as 
Leigh 

Erewhile,  as  if  the  only  man  on 
earth, 

Responsible  for  all  the  thistles  blown. 

And  tigers  couchant,  struggling  in 
amaze 

Against  disease  and  winter,  snarling 
on 

Forever  that  the  world's  not  para- 
dise. 

0  cousin,  let  us  be  content,  in  work, 
To  do  the  thing  we  can,  and  not  pre- 
sume 

To  fret  because  it's  little.  'Twill  em- 
ploy 

Seven  men  they  say  to  make  a  per- 
fect pin; 

Who  makes  the  head,  content  to  miss 
the  point; 

Who  makes  the  point,  agreed  to  leave 
the  join: 

And  if  a  man  should  cry,  '  I  want  a 
pin, 

And  I  nmst  make  it  straightway, 
head  and  point,' 

His  wisdom  is  not  worth  the  pin  he 
wants. 

Seven  men  to  a  pin,  and  not  a  man 
too  much. 

Seven  generations,  haply,  to  this 
world. 

To  right  it  visiblj^  a  finger's  breadth. 

And  mend  its  rents  a  little.  Oh,  to 
storm 

And  say, '  This  world  here  is  intolera- 
ble; 

1  will  not  eat  this  corn,  nor  drink  this 

wine. 

Nor  love  this  woman,  flinging  her  ray 
soul 

Without  a  bond  for't  as  a  lover 
should, 

Nor  use  the  generous  leave  of  happi- 
ness 

As  not  too  good  for  using  generous- 
ly'- 

(Since  virtue  kindles  at  the  touch  of 
joy. 

Like  a  man's  cheek  laid  on  a  \yoman's 
hand, 

And  God,  who  knows  it,  looks  for 
quick  returns 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


155 


From  joys)  —  to  stand  and  claim  to 
have  a  life 

Beyond  the  bounds  of  the  iiulividnal 
man, 

And  raze  all  personal  cloisters  of  the 
soul 

To  Iniild  up  public  stores  and  maga- 
zines, 

As  if  God's  creatures  otherwise  were 
lost, 

The    builder    surelj'    saved    by    any 
means  ! 

To  think, — I  have  a  pattern  on  my 
nail. 

And  I  will  carve  the  world  new  after 
it, 

And  solve  so  these  hard  social  ques- 
tions, nay, 

Impossible    social     questions,    since 
their  roots 

Strike  deep  in  e\irs   own    existence 
here, 

Which  God  ]iermits  because  the  ques- 
tion's hard 

To  abolish  evil  nor  attaint  fi-ee-will. 

Ay,  hard  to  God,  but  not  to  llomney 
Leigh; 

For  Komney  has  a  pattern  on  his  nail 

(Whatever  may   be   lacking    on    the 
]Mount), 

And,    not    being    overnice    to    sepa- 
rate 

What's  element  from  what's  conven- 
tion, hastes 

By  line   on   line   to  draw  you   out   a 
world. 

Without  your  help  indeed,  unless  you 
take 

His  yoke  ujwu  you,  and  will  learn  of 
him, 

So  much  he  has  to  teach  !  — so  good  a 
world. 

The  same  the  whole  creation's  groan- 
ing for  ! 

No  rich  nor  poor,  no  gain  nor  loss  nor 
stint, 

No  pottage  in  it  able  to  exclude 

A  brother's  birthright,  and  no  right 
of  birth, 

The  pottage,  —  both  secured  to  every 
man. 

And  perfect  virtue  dealt  out  like  the 
rest 

Gratuitously,  with  the  soup  at  six, 

To  whoso  does  not  seek  it." 

"  Softly,  sir," 

I  interrupted.     "  I  had  a  cousin  once 

I  held  in  reverence.     If  he  strained 
too  wide, 


It  was  not  to   take   honor,  but  give 
help. 

The  gesture  was  heroic.     If  his  hand 

Accomplished   nothing  .  .^  (well,   it 
is  not  jiroved) 

That  empty  hand  thrown  irapotently 
out 

Wert}  sooner  caught,  I  think,  by  One 
in  heaven, 

Than  many  a  hand  that  reaped  a  har- 
vest in 

And  keeps  the  scythe's  glow  on  it. 
Praj-  you,  then, 

For  my  sake  merely,  use  less  bitter- 
ness 

In  speaking  of  my  cousin." 

"Ah,"  he  said, 

"Aurora!    when   the   projihet    beats 
the  ass. 

The  angel  intercedes."    He  shook  his 
head. 

"  And  yet  to  mean  so  well,  and  fail  so 
foul, 

Expresses  ne'er  another  beast  than 
man: 

The  antithesis  is  human.    Hearken, 
dear : 

There's   too   much  abstract    willing, 
purposing, 

In  this  poor  world.     We  talk  by  ag- 
gregates, 

And   think   by   systems,    and,    being 
used  to  face 

Our  evils  in  statistics,  are  inclined 

To  cap  them  with  unreal  remedies 

Drawn  out  in  haste  on  the  other  side 
the  slate." 

"That's  true,"  I   ans\vered,  fain  to 

throw  up  thought. 
And   make   a  game   oft.     "Yes,  we 

generalize 
Enough  to  please  you.     If  we  pray 

at  all, 
We    pray   no    longer    for    oitr    daily 

bread, 
But  next  centenary's    harvests.      If 

we  give, 
Our  cup  of  water  is  not  tendered  till 
We  lay  down  pipes  and  found  a  com- 
pany 
With  branches.      Ass  or  angel,    'tis 

the  same : 
A  woman  cannot  do  the  thing  she 

ought, 
Which  means  whatever  perfect  thing 

she  can. 
In  life,   in  art,   in   science,   but  she 

fears 


15G 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


To    let  the  perfect  action  take    her 

part, 
And  rest  there :  she  must  prove  what 

she  can  do 
Before  slfe  does  it,  prate  of  woman's 

rights, 
Of  woman's  mission,  woman's  func- 
tion, till 
The   men   (who    are  prating  tbo  on 

their  side)  cry, 
'  A  woman's  function  plainly  is  .  .  . 

to  talk.' 
l^oor  souls,  tlicy  are  very  reasonably 

A'exed : 
They  cannot  hear  each  other  talk." 

"  And  you, 
An  artist,  judge  so  ?  " 

"  I,  an  artist,  yes. 
Because,  precisely,  I'm  an  artist,  sir, 
And  woman,  if  another  sate  in  sight, 
I'd  whisper,  —  '  Soft,  my  sister  !  not  a 

word  ! 
By  sjieaking  we  prove  oidy  Ave  can 

speak, 
Which    he,    the    man    here,    never 

doubted.     What 
He  doubts  is,  whether  we  can  do  the 

thing 
With    decent    grace    we've    not    yet 

done  at  all. 
Now,  do  it;  bi'ing  your  statue,  —  you 

have  room  ! 
He'll    see  it  even    by  the    starlight 

here; 
And  if  'tis  ere  so  little  like  the  god 
Who  looks  out  from   the   marble  si- 
lently 
Along  the  "track  of  his  own  shining 

dart 
Through  the  dusk  of  ages,  there's  no 

need  to  speak: 
The  universe  shall  henceforth  speak 

for  you. 
And  witness,  "  ShcAvho  did  this  thing 

was  born 
To  do  it.  —  claims  her  license  in  her 

work.'  " 
And  so  with  more  works.     Whoso 

cures  the  plague. 
Though    twice    a    woman,    shall    be 

called  a  leech; 
Who  rights  a  land's  finances   is   ex- 
cused 
For    touching    coppers,    though    her 

hands  be  white, — 
But  we,  we  talk  !  " 

"  It  is  the  age's  mood," 
He  said:  "  we  boast,  and  do  not.    We 

put  up 


Hostelry  signs  where'er  we  lodge  a 

day. 
Some  red  colo-ssal  cow  with  mighty 

paps 
A  Cyclops'  fingers  could  not  strain  to 

milk. 
Then  bring  out  presently  our  saucer- 

ful 
Of  curds.     We  want   more   quiet  in 

our  works. 
More    knowledge  of    the   bounds  in 

which  we  work, 
More  knowledge  that  each  individual 

man 
Remains    an  jVdam    to    the    general 

race. 
Constrained  to  see,  like  Adam,  that 

he  keep 
His   personal  state's  condition   hon- 
estly. 
Or  vain  all  thoughts  of  his  to  help 

the  world. 
Which  still  must  be  deA'eloped  from 

its  one, 
If  bettered  in  its  many.     We  indeed, 
Who  think  to  lay  it  out  new  like  a 

park,  — 
We  take  a  work  on  us  which  is  not 

man's; 
For  God  alone  sits  far  enough  above 
To  speculate  so  largely.    None  of  us 
(Not  Romney  Leigh)  is  mad  enough 

to  say, 
We'll  have  a  grove  of  oaks  upon  that 

slope. 
And  sink  the  need  of  acorns.     Gov- 
ernment, 
If  A^eritable  and  lawful,  is  not  given 
By  imposition  of  the  foreign  hand. 
Nor  chosen  from  a  pretty  pattern-book 
Of  some  domestic  idealogue  who  sits 
And  coldly  chooses  empire,  where  as 

well 
He  might  republic.     Genuine  govern- 
ment 
Is  but  the  expression  of  a  nation,  gootl 
Or  less  good,  even  as  all  society, 
Howe'er  unequal,  monstrous,  crazed, 

and  cursed, 
Is  but  the  expression  of  men's  single 

lives. 
The   loud    sum   of    the    silent    units. 

What, 
We'd  change  the  aggregate,  and  yet 

retain 
Each  separate  figure  ?  whom  do  we 

cheat  by  that  ? 
Now,  not  even  Romney." 

"  Cousin,  you  are  sad. 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


15' 


I 


Did  all   your   social    labor   at    Leigh 
Hall 

And     elsewhere    come     to    nought, 
then?" 

It  was  nought," 

He  answered  mildly.     "  There  is  room 
indeed 

For  statues  still,  in  this  large  world  of 
God's, 

But  not  for  vacuums  :  so  I  am  not 
sad,  — 

Not  sadder  than  is  good  for  what  I 
am. 

My  vain  phalanstery  dissolved  itself  ; 

My  men    and  women  of    disordered 
lives, 

I    brought    in   orderly  to    dine    and 
sleep. 

Broke  up  those  waxen  masks  I  made 
them  wear. 

With  fierce  contortions  of  the  natural 
face, 

And  cursed  me  for  my  tyrannous  con- 
straint 

In  forcing  crooked  creatures  to  live 
straight. 

And  set  the  country  hounds  upon  my 
back 

To  bite  and  tear  me  for  my  wicked 
deed 

Of    trying    to   do   good    without    the 
church. 

Or  even  the  squires,  Aurora.    Do  you 
mind 

Your  ancient  neighbors  ?    The  great 
•book-club  teems 

With    '  sketches,'    '  summaries,'    and 
'  last  tracts,'  but  twelve, 

On  socialistic  troublers  of  close  bonds 

Betwixt  the  generous  rich  and  grate- 
ful pool". 

The    vicar    preached    from    '  Revela- 
tion,' (till 

The  doctor  woke)  and  found  me  with 
'  the  frogs ' 

On  three  successive  Sundays  ;  ay,  and 
stopped 

To  weep  a  little  (for  he's  getting  old) 

That  such  perdition  should  o'ertake  a 
man 

Of  such  fair  acres,  — in  the  parish,  too! 

He    i^rinted    his    discourses    '  by  re- 
quest ; ' 

And,  if  your  book  shall  sell  as  his  did, 
then 

Your  verses  are  less  good  than  I  sup- 
pose. 

The  women  of  the  neighborhood  sub- 
scribed. 


And  sent  me  a  copy  bound  in  scarlet 

silk. 
Tooled  edges,  blazoned  with  the  arms 

of  Leigh  : 
I  own  that  touched  me." 

"  What,  the  pretty  ones  ? 
Poor  Romney  !  " 

"  Otherwise  the  effect  was  small. 
I  had  my  windows  broken  once  or 

twice 
By    liberal    peasants    naturally    in- 
censed 
At  such  a  vexer  of  Arcadian  peace, 
Who  would   not  let  men  call  their 

wives  their  own 
To  kick  like  Britons,  and  made  obsta- 
cles 
When    things   went   smoothly,   as   a 

baby  drugged, 
Toward     freedom     and     starvation, 

bringing  down 
The  wicked    London    tavern-thieves 

and  drabs 
To  affront  the  blessed  hillside  drabs 

and  thieves 
With  mended  morals,  quotha,  —  fine 

new  lives  !  — 
My  windows  paid  for't.    I  was  shot  at, 

once, 
By  an  active  poacher  who  had  hit  a 

hare 
From    the    other    barrel,    (tired    of 

springeing  game 
So  long  upon  my  acres,  undisturbed. 
And  restless  for  the  country's  virtue  ; 

yet 
He  missed  me)  ay,  and  pelted  very 

oft 
In  riding  through  the  village.    '  There 

he  goes, 
Who'd  drive  away  our  Christian  gen- 
tlefolks, 
To  catch  us  undefended  in  the  traji 
He  baits  with  poisonous  cheese,  and 

lock  us  up 
In  that   pernicious  prison   of    Leigh 

With  all  his  murderers  !  Give  another 

name. 
And  say  Leigh  Hell,  and  burn  it  up 

with  fire.' 
And  so  thev  did,  at  last,  Aurora." 

"  Did  ?  " 

"  You  never  heard  it,  cousin  ?    Vin- 
cent's news 

Came  stinted,  then." 

"  They  did  ?    They  burnt  Leigh 
Hall?" 


15S 


AURORA    LEIGH. 


"You're  sorry,   dear  Aurora?     Yes 

indeed, 
Tliey   did    it    perfectly ;    a  thorough 

work, 
And  not  a  failure,  this  time.     Let  us 

grant 
'Tis  somewhat  easier,  though,  to  burn 

a  house 
Than  yiuild  a  system  ;  yet  that's  easy, 

too  — 
In    a   dream.      Books,   pictures,    aj% 

the  pictures  !     What, 
You  think  your  dear  Vandykes  would 

give  them  pause  ? 
Our  proud  ancestral  Leighs,  with  those 

peaked  beards, 
Or  bosoms  white  as  foam  thrown  up 

on  rocks 
From  the  old-spent  wave.     Such  calm 

defiant  looks 
They  flared  uji  with  !  now  nevermore 

to  twit 
The   bones   in   the  family  vault  with 

ugly  death. 
Not  one  was  rescued,  save  the  Lady 

Maud, 
Who  threw  you  down,  that  morning 

you  were  born, 
The    undeniable    lineal    mouth    and 

chin. 
To  wear    forever   for    her    gracious 

sake ; 
For  which  good  deed  I  saved  lier  :  the 

rest  went : 
And  you,  you're  sorry,  cousin.    Well, 

for  me, 
With  all  my  phalansterians  safely  out, 
(Poor  hearts,  they  helped  the  burners, 

it  Mas  said, 
And  certainly  a  few  clapped   hands 

and  yelled) 
The    ruin    did    not    hurt    me    as    it 

might ; 
As  when,  for  instance,  I  was  hurt  one 

day, 
A  certain  letter  being  destroyed.    In 

fact. 
To  see  the  great  house  flare  so  .  .  . 

oaken  floors 
Our  fathers  made  so  fine  with  rushes 

once. 
Before  our  mothers  furbished  them 

with  trains, 
Carved    wainscoats,   panelled    walls, 

(the  favorite  slide 
For    draining    off    a    martyr  —  or    a 

rogue) 
The  echoing  galleries,  lialf  a  half-mile 

long, 


And  all  tlie  various  stairs  that  took 

you  up. 
And  took  you  down,  and  took  you 

round  aliout 
Upon  their  slippery  darkness,  recol- 
lect. 
All  helping  to  keep  up  one  blazing 

jest  ; 
The  flames  through  all  the  casements 

pushing  forth 
Like    red-hot    devils    crinkled    into 

snakes. 
All  signifying,  '  Look   you,   Rojnnev 

Leigh, 
We  save  the  people  from  your  saving, 

here. 
Yet  so  as  by  fire  !  we  make  a  pretty 

show 
Besides,— and  that's  the  best  you've 

e\>er  done.' 
—  To  see  this,  almost  moved  myself 

to  clap. 
The  '  vale  et  plaude '  came  too  with 

effect, 
When  in  the  roof  fell,  and   the  fire 

that  paused. 
Stunned     momently      beneath      the 

stroke  of  slates 
And  tumbling  rafters,  rose  at  once 

and  roared, 
And,     wrapping     the     whole    house 

(which  disappeared 
In  a  mounting  whirlwind  of  dilated 

flame), 
Blew  upward  straight  its  drift  of  fiery 

chaff 
In    the    face    of    heaven  .  .  .  which 

blenched,  and  ran  up  higher." 

"  Poor  Romney  !  " 

"  Sometimes  when  I  dream,"  he  said, 

"  I  hear  the  silence  after,  'twas  so 

still. 
For  all    those  wild    beasts,   yelling, 

cursing  round. 
Were    suddenly    silent    while     you 

counted  live.,  — 
So  silent  that  you  heard  a  young  bird 

fall 
From  the  top-nest  in  the  neighboring 

rookery, 
Through  edging  over-rashly  toward 

the  light. 
The  old  rooks  had  already  fied  too 

far 
To  hear  the  screech  they  fled  with, 

though  you  saw 
Some  flying  still,  like  scatterings  of 

dead  leaves 


"  With  one  stone  stair,  symbolic  of  my  life, 
Ascending,  winding,  leading  up  to  nought."  —  Page  15Q. 


^ 


«  ■'  A  m\:: 
or   THE      ' 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


159 


In   autumn-gusts,  seen  dark  against 

the  sky, — 
All  flying,  ousted,  like  the  house  of 

Leigh." 

"  Dear  Romney  !  " 

"  Evidently  'twould  have  been 
A  fine  sight  for  a  poet,  sweet,  like 

you. 
To  make  the  verse  blaze  after.    I  my- 
self, 
Even  I,  felt  something  in  the  grand 

old  trees, 
Which  stood  that  moment  like  brute 

Druid  gods 
Amazed  upon  the  rim  of  ruin,  where. 
As  into  a  blackened  socket,  the  great 

fire 
Had  dropjied,  still  throwing  up  splin- 
ters now  and  then 
To  show  them    gray  with  all  their 

centuries. 
Left  there  to  witness  that  on  such  a 

day 
The  house  went  out." 

"Ah!" 
"  While  you  counted  tive, 
I  seemed  to  feel  a  little  like  a  Leigh ; 
But  then  it  passed,  Aurora.    A  child 

cried. 
And  I  had  enough  to  think  of  what 

to  do 
AVith  all  those  houseless  wretches  in 

the  dark. 
And  ponder  where  they'd  dance  the 

next  time,  —  they 
Who  had  burnt  the  viol." 

"  Did  you  think  of  that  ? 
Who  burns  his  viol  will  not  dance,  I 

know, 
To  cymbals,  Romney." 

"  O  my  sweet,  sad  voice," 
He  cried,  —  "  O  voice  that  speaks  and 

overcomes ! 
The  sun  is  silent;  but  Aurora  speaks." 

"Alas  !  "  I  said,  "  I  speak  I  know  not 

what: 
I'm  back  in  childhood,  thinking  as  a 

child, 
A   foolish  fancy  — will   it  make  you 

smile?  — 
I  shall  not  from  the  window  of  my 

room 
Catch  sight  of    those  old    chimneys 

any  more." 

"No  more,"  he  answered.     "If  you 
pushed  one  day 


Through  all  the  green  hills  to  our 
fathers'  house, 

You'd  come  upon  a  great  charred  cir- 
cle, where 

The  patient  earth  was  singed  an  acre 
round, 

With  one  stone  stair,  symbolic  of  mj- 
life. 

Ascending,  winding,  leading  up  to 
nought. 

'Tis  worth  a  poet's  seeing.  Will  you 
go?" 

I  made  no  answer.    Had  I  any  right 
To  weep  with  this  man,  that  I  dared 

to  speak  ? 
A  woman  stood  between  his  soul  and 

mine. 
And    waved    us    oiT    from    touching 

evermore, 
With  those   unclean  white  hands  of 

hers.     Enough. 
We  bad  burnt  our   viols   and   were 

silent. 

So, 
The  silence  lengthened  till  it  pressed. 

I  spoke 
To  breathe,  —  "I  think  you  were  ill 

afterward." 

"More  ill,"  he  answered,  "had  been 
scarcely  ill. 

I  hoped  this  feeble  fumbling  at  life's 
knot 

Might  end  concisely;  but  I  failed  to 
.    die. 

As  formerly  I  failed  to  live,  and  thus 

Grew  willing,  having  tried  all  other 
ways. 

To  try  just  God's.  Humility's  so 
good 

When  pride's  impossible.  Mark  us, 
how  we  make 

Our  virtues,  cousin,  from  our  worn- 
out  sins. 

Which  smack  of  them  from  hence- 
forth.    Is  it  right. 

For  instance,  to  wed  here  while  you 
love  there  ? 

And  yet,  because  a  man  sins  once,  the 
sin 

Cleaves  to  him  in  necessity  to  sin. 

That  if  he  sin  not  so,  to  damn  him- 
self. 

He  sins  so,  to  damn  others  with  him- 
self: 

And  thus  to  wed  here,  loving  there, 
becomes 

A  duty.     Virtue  buds  a  dubious  leaf 


i 


160 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Round  mortal  brows:  your  ivj's  bet- 
ter, dear. 
—  Yet  she,   'tis  certaiu,  is  my  very 

wife, 
The  very  lamb  left  mangled  by  the 

wolves 
Through  my  own  bad  shepherding: 

and  could  I  choose 
But  take  her  on  my  shoulder  i)ast  this 

stretch 
Of    rough,   uneasj'    wilderness,   poor 

lamb. 
Poor  child,  poor  child  ?    Aurora,  my 

beloved, 
1  will  not  vex  you  any  more  to-night; 
But,  having  spoken  what  I  came  to 

say. 
The  rest  shall  please  you.     "What  .she 

can  in  me,  — 
Protection,    tender    liking,   freedom, 

ease,  — 
She  shall  have  surely,  liberally,  for 

her 
And    hers,   Aurora.     Small    amends 

they'll  make 
For  hideous  evils  which  she  had  not 

known 
Except  by  me,  and  for  this  imminent 

loss. 
This  forfeit  presence  of    a   gracious 

friend, 
"Which  also  she  must  forfeit  for  my 

sake, 
Since  .  .  .  droji  your  hand  in  mine  a 

moment,  sweet, 
"We're  parting! — Ah,  my  snowdrop, 

what  a  touch. 
As  if  the  wind  had  swept  it  off !  you 

grudge 
Your  gelid  sweetness  on  my  palm  but 

so, 
A  moment  ?  angry,  that  I  could  not 

bear 
Yon  .  .  .  speaking,  breathing,  living, 

side  by  side 
"With  some  one  called  my  wife  .  .  . 

and  live  myself? 
Nay,  be  not  cruel:   you  must  under- 
stand ! 
Your  lightest  footfall   on  a  floor  of 

mine 
"Would    shake  the  house,   my   lintel 

being  uncrossed 
'Gainst  angels:  henceforth  it  is  night 

with  me. 
And  so,  henceforth,  I  put  the  shutters 

up: 
Auroras  must  not  come  to  spoil  rav 

dark." 


He  smiled  so  feebly,  with  an  empty 

hand 
Stretched  sideway  from   me  —  as  in- 
deed he  looked 
To  any  one  luit  me  to  give  him  help; 
And  while  the  moon  came  suddenly 

out  full, 
The  double-rose  of  our  Italian  moons, 
Sufficient  plainly  for  the  lieaven  and 

earth, 
(The  stars,  struck  dumb,  and  washed 

away  in  dews 
Of  golden  glory,  and  the  mountains 

steeped 
In  divine  languor)  he,  the  man,  ai> 

peared 
So  pale  and  patient,  like  the  marble 

man 
A  sculptor  puts  his  personal  sadness 

in 
To  join  his  grandeur  of  ideal  thought — 
As  if  his  mallet  struck  me  from  my 

height 
Of  passionate  indignation,  I  who  had 

risen 
Pale,      doubting      paused.  .  .  .  "S\"as 

Romney  mad  indeed  ? 
Had  all  this  wrong  of  heart  juade  sick 

the  brain  ? 

Then  quiet,  with  a  sort  of  trenndous 

pride, 
"  Go,  cousin,"  I  .said  coldlv:  "  a  fare- 
well 
"Was  sooner  sjioken  'twixt  a  pair  of 

friends 
In  those  old  days  than  seems  to  suit 

you  now. 
Howbeit,  since  then,  I've  writ  a  book 

or  two, 
I'm  somewhat  dull  still  in  the  manly 

art 
Of  phrase  and  metaphrase.    "SV'hy,  any 

man 
Can  carve  a  score  of  white  Loves  out 

of  snow, 
As  Buonarroti  in  my  Florence  there. 
And  set  them   on  the  wall  in  some 

safe  shade,  — 
As  safe,  sir,  as  your  marriage  !  very 

good; 
Though  if  a  woman  took  one  from  the 

ledge 
To    put    it    on     the     table     by    her 

flowers. 
And    let    it  mind    her  of    a    certain 

friend, 
'Twould    dro])    at    once,    (so    better) 

would  not  bear 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


161 


Her  }iail-iiiark  even,  where  she  took 
it  up 

A  little  tenderly  (so  best,  I  say :) 

For  me,  I  would  not  toucli  the  fragile 
thing 

And  risk  to  S]>oil  it  half  an  honr  before 

The  sun  shall  shine  to  melt  it:  leave 
it  there. 

I'm  plain  at  speech,   direct  in  pur- 
pose: when 

I  speak,  you'll  take  the  meaning  as  it 
is. 

And  not  allow  for  puckerings  in  the 
silk 

By  clever  stitches.    I'm  a  woman,  sir, 

And  use  the  woman's  figures  natu- 
rally, 

As  you  the  male  license.     So,  I  wish 
you  well. 

I'm  simply  sorry  for  the  griefs  you've 
had, 

And  not  for  your  sake  only,  but  man- 
kind's. 

This  race  is  never  gi'ateful:  from  the 
first, 

One  fills  their  cuj)  at  sujjiierwith  pure 
wine, 

Which  back  they  give   at  cross-time 
on  a  sponge, 

In  vinegar  and  gall." 

"  If  gratefuller," 

He  murnau-ed,  "  bv  so  mucli  less  jiitia- 
ble  ! 

God's  self  would  never  have    come 
dt)wn  to  die. 

Could  man  have  thanked  him  for  it." 
,  "Happily 

'Tis    patent,   thit,   whatever,"   I  re- 
sumed, 

"  You  suffered   from   this  thankless- 
ness  of  men, 

You  sink  no  more  than  Moses'  bul- 
rush-boat 

When   once  relieved   of    Moses;    for 
you're  light. 

You're   light,   my   cousin !    which    is 
well  for  you. 

And  manly.     For  myself —  now  mark 
me,  sir. 

They  burnt  Leigh   Hall;  but  if,  coii- 
smn  mated 

To  devils,  heightened   beyond  Luci- 
fers, 

They  had  burnt  instead  a  star  or  two 
of  those 

We  saw  above  there  just  a  moment 
back. 

Before    the    moon    abolished    them, 
destroyed 


And  riddled  them  in  ashes  through  a 

sieve 
On   the  head  of  tlie  foundering  uni- 
verse —  what  then  ? 
If  you  and  I  remained  still  you  and  I, 
It  could  not  shift  our  places  as  mere 

friends, 
Nor  render  decent  you  should  toss  a 

phrase 
Beyond  the  point  of  actual  feeling  !  — 

Nay, 
You  shall  not  interruiit  me:   as  you 

said, 
We're  parting.     Certainly,   not  once 

nor  twice 
To-night  you've  mocked    me    some- 
what, or  yourself. 
And  I,  at  least,  have  not  deserved  it 

so 
That  I  should   meet   it  unsurprised. 

But  now. 
Enough.    We're  parting  .  .  ,  parting. 

Cousin  Leigh, 
I  wish  vou  well  through  all  the  acts 

of  life 
And  life's  relations,  wedlock  not  the 

least. 
And  it    shall   '  please    me,'   in    your 

words,  to  know 
You  yield  your  wife  in-otection,  free- 
dom, ease. 
And   very  tender   liking.    May    you 

live 
So    haijpy    with    her,   Romney,   that 

your  friends 
Shall    praise    her  for  it.     Meantime 

some  of  us 
Are  wholly  dull  in  keeping  ignorant 
Of  what  she  has  suffered  by  you,  and 

what  debt 
Of  sorrow  your  rich  love  sits  down  to 

pay: 
But,  if  'tis  sweet  for  love  to  pay  its 

debt, 
'Tis  sweeter  still  for  love  to  give  its 

gift: 
And  you,  be  liberal  in  the  sweeter 

way ; 
You  can,  I  think.     At  least  as  touches 

me. 
You    owe    her,    cousin    Komney,   no 

amends. 
She  is  not  used  to  hold  my  gown  so 

fast 
You  need  entreat  her  now  to  let  it 

go: 
The  lady  never  was  a  friend  of  mine, 
Nor  capable— I  thought  you    knew 

aa  much  — 


i 


162 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Of  losing  for  your  sake  so  poor  a  prize 
As  such  a  worthless  friendship.     Be 

content, 
Good  cousin,  therefore,  both  for  her 

and  you  ! 
I'll  never  spoil  your  dark,  nor  dull 

your  noon. 
Nor  vex  you  when  you're  merry  or  at 

rest: 
You  shall  not  need  to  put  a  shutter  up 
To  keep  out  this  Aurora,  though  j-our 

north 
Can    make  Auroras  which  vex    no- 
body. 
Scarce  known  from  night,  I  fancied  ! 

let  me  add, 
My  larks  fly  higher  tlian  some  win- 
dows.   Well, 
You've    read    your    Leighs.     Indeed 

'twould  shake  a  house. 
If  such  as  I  came  in  with  outstretched 

hand 
Still  warm    and    thrilling    from    the 

clasp  of  one  .  .  . 
Of  one  we  know  ...  to  acknowledge, 

palm  to  palm. 
As  mistress  there,  the  Lady  Walde- 

mar." 

"  Now  God  be  with  us  !  "  .  .  .  with  a 

sudden  clash 
Of    voice    he     interrupted.     "  What 

name's  that  ? 
You  spoke  a  name,  Aurora." 

"  Pardon  me: 
I  would  that,  Romney,  I  could  name 

your  wife 
Nor  wound  you,  yet  be  worthy." 

"  Are  we  mad?" 
He    echoed  —  "wife!     mine!     Lady 

Waldemar ! 
I     think    you    said    my    wife."     He 

sprang  to  his  feet. 
And    threw    his    noble    head    back 

toward  the  moon. 
As  one  who  swims  against  a  stormy 

sea, 
Then  laughed  with  such  a  helpless, 

hopeless  scorn, 
I  stood  and  trembled. 

"  May  God  judge  me  so  !  " 
He  said  at  last,  —  "I  came  convicted 

here. 
And  humbled  sorely,  if  not  enough. 

T  came. 
Because  this  woman  from  her  crystal 

soul 
Had  shown  me  something  which   a 

man  calls  light; 


Because  too,  formerly,  I  sinned  by 
her, 

As  then  and  ever  since  I  haVe  bv 
God, 

Through  arrogance  of  nature,  — 
though  I  loved  .  .  . 

Whom  best  I  need  not  say,  since  that 
is  writ 

Too  plainly  in  the  book  of  my  mis- 
deeds: 

And  thus  I  came  here  to  abase  myself. 

And  fasten,  kneeling,  on  her  regent 
brows 

A  garland  which  I  startled  thence 
one  day 

Of  her  beautiful  June  youth.  But 
here  again 

I'm  bafHed,  fail  in  my  abasement  as 

My  aggrandizement:  there's  no  room 
left  for  me 

At  any  woman's  foot  who  miscon- 
ceives 

My  nature,  purpose,  possible  actions. 
What ! 

Are  you  the  Aurora  who  made  large 
my  dreams 

To  frame  your  greatness  ?  you  con- 
ceive so  small  ? 

You  stand  so  less  than  woman  through 
being  more, 

And  lose  your  natural  instinct  (like  a 
beast) 

Through  intellectual  culture  ?  since 
indeed 

I  do  not  think  that  any  common  she 

Would  dare  adopt  such  monstrous 
forgeries 

For  the  legible  life-signature  of  such 

As  I,  with  all  my  blots,  with  all  mv 
blots  ! 

At  last,  then,  peerless  cousin,  we  arc; 
peers; 

At  last  we're  even.  Ah,  you've  left 
your  height, 

And  here  upon  my  level  we  take 
hands. 

And  here  I  reach  you  to  forgive  you, 
sweet, 

Aud  that's  a  fall,  Aurora.     Long  ago 

You  seldom  understood  me;  but  be- 
fore 

I  could  not  blame  you.  Then,  you 
only  seemed 

So  high  above,  you  could  not  see  be- 
low; 

But  now  I  breathe,  —  but  now  I  par- 
don I    Nay, 

We're  parting.  Dearest,  men  have 
burnt  my  house, 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


163 


Maligned  my  motives;   hut  not  one, 

I  swear, 
Has  wronged  my  soul  as  this  Aurora 

has, 
Who  called  the  Lady  Waldemar  my 

wife." 

"  Not     married    to     her !     Yet    you 
said"  .  .  . 

"Again? 

Nay,  read  the  lines  "  (he  held  a  letter 
out) 

"  She  sent  you  through  me." 

By  the  moonlight  there 

I  tore  the  meaning  out  with  passion- 
ate haste 

Much  rather  than  I  read  it.    Thus  it 
ran. 


NINTH   BOOK. 


Even  thus.    I  pause  to  write  it  out 

at  length, 
The  letter  of  the  Lady  Waldemar. 

"  I  prayed  your  cousin  Leigh  to  take 

you  this ; 
He  says  he'll  do  it.    After  years  of 

love. 
Or  what  is  called  so,  when  a  woman 

frets 
And  fools  upon  one  string  of  a  man's 

name. 
And  fingers  it  forever  till  it  breaks. 
He  may  perhaps  do  for  her  such  a 

thing, 
And  she  accept  it  without  detriment, 
Although   she  should  not  love    him 

any  more. 
And  I,  who  do  not  love  him,  nor  love 

you, 
Nor  you,  Aurora,  choose  you   shall 

repent 
Your  most  ungracious  letter,  and  con- 
fess, 
Constrained  by  his  convictions,  (he's 

convinced) 
You've  wronged  me  foully.     Are  you 

made  so  ill, 
You  woman,  to  impute  such  ill  to  me  ? 
We  both  had  mothers,  —  lay  in  their 

bosom  once. 
And,  after  all,  I  thank  you,  Aurora 

Leigh, 
For  proving  to  myself  that  there  are 

thiuKS 


I  would  not  do,  —  not  for  my  life,  nor 
him,  — 

Though  something  I  have  somewhat 
overdone ; 

For  instance,  when  I  went  to  see  the 
gods 

One  morning  on  Olympus,  with  a  step 

That  shook  the  thunder  from  a  cer- 
tain cloud. 

Committing  myself  vilely.  Could  I 
think 

The  Muse  I  pulled  my  heart  out  from 
my  breast 

To  soften  had  herself  a  sort  of  heart. 

And  loved  my  mortal  ?  He  at  least 
loved  her, 

I  heard  hina  say  so:  'twas  my  rec- 
ompense. 

When,  watching  at  his  bedside  four- 
teen days, 

He  broke  out  ever,  like  a  flame  at 
whiles 

Between  the  heats  of  fever,  "Is  it 
thou? 

Breathe  closer,  sweetest  mouth ! ' 
And  when,  at  last 

The  fever  gone,  the  wasted  face  ex- 
tinct, 

As  if  it  irked  him  much  to  know  me 
there, 

He  said,  '  'Twas  kind,  'twas  good, 
'twas  womanly,' 

(And  fifty  praises  to  excuse  no  love), 

'  But  was  the  picture  safe  he  had  ven- 
tured for  ? ' 

And  then,  half  wandering,  —  'I  have 
loved  her  well,  « 

Although  she  could  not  love  rue.' 
'  Say  instead,' 

I  answered,  '  she  does  love  you.' 
'Twas  my  turn 

To  rave:  I  would  have  married  him 
so  changed. 

Although  the  world  had  jeered  me 
properly 

For  taking  uj)  with  Cupid  at  his 
worst, 

The  silver  quiver  worn  off  on  his  hair. 

'  No,  no,'  he  murmured,  '  no,  she 
loves  me  not; 

Aurora  Leigh  does  better.  Bring  her 
book 

And  read  it  softly.  Lady  Waldemar, 

Until  I  thank  your  friendship  more 
for  that 

Than  even  for  harder  service.'  So 
I  read 

Your  book,  Aurora,  for  an  hour  that 
day: 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


I  kept  its  pauses,  marked  its  empha- 
sis; 
My  voice,  empaled  upon  its  hooks  of 

rhyme, 
Not  once  would  writhe,  nor  quiver, 

nor  revolt; 
I  read  on  calmly,  —  calmly  shut  it  up, 
Observing,   '  There's    some  merit  in 

the  book; 
And  yet  the    merit    in't    is    thrown 

away, 
As  chances  still  with  women  if  we 

write 
Or  write  not:  we  want  string  to  tie 

our  flowers. 
So    drop    them    as   we  walk,   which 

serves  to  show 
The    way  we  went.    Good-morning, 

Mister  Leigh; 
You'll  find  another  reader  the  next 

time. 
A  woman  who  does  better  than  to 

love, 
I  hate;  she  will  do  nothing  very  well: 
Male  poets  are  preferable,  straining 

less. 
And    teaching    more.'     I    triumphed 

o'er  you  both. 
And  left  him. 

"  When  I  saw  him  afterward, 
I  had  read  your  shameful  letter,  and 

my  heart. 
He    came    with    health    recovered, 

strong,  though  pale,  — 
Lord  Howe  and  he,  a  courteous  pair 

of  friends,  — 
Ho  say  what  men  dare  say  to  women, 

when 
Their  debtors.     But  I  stopped  them 

with  a  word. 
And  proved  I  had  never  trodden  such 

a  road 
To  carry  so  much  dirt  upon  my  shoe. 
Then,   putting  into  it  something  of 

disdain, 
I  asked  forsooth  his  pardon,  and  my 

own. 
For  having  done  no  better  than  to 

love. 
And  that  not  wisely,  though   'twas 

long  ago. 
And     had    been    mended    radically 

since. 
I  told  him,  as  I  tell  you  now,  Miss 

Leigh, 
And  proved  I  took  some  trouble,  lor 

his  sake, 
(Because  I  knew  he  did  not  love  the 

girl) 


To  spoil  my  hands  with  working  in 

the  stream 
Of    that    poor   bubbling    nature,   till 

she  went. 
Consigned  to  one  I  trusted  (my  own 

maid 
"Who  once  had  lived  full  five  months 

in  my  house. 
Dressed  hair  superbly)  with  a  lavish 

purse 
To  carry  to  Australia  where  she  had 

left 
A  husband,  said  she.    If  the  creature 

lied. 
The  mission  failed,  —  we  all  do  fail 

and  lie 
More  or  less,  —  and  I'm  sorry,  wliich 

is  all 
Expected  from  ua  when  we  fail  the 

most. 
And  go  to  church  to  own  it.     What  I 

meant 
Was  just  the  best  for  him,  and  me, 

and  her  .  .  . 
Best  even  for  Marian  !  —  I  am  sorry 

for't, 
And  very  sorry.    Yet  my  creature  said 
She  saw  her  stop  to  speak  in  Oxford 

Street 
To  one  ...  no  matter  !  I  had  sooner 

cut 
My  hand  off  (though  'twere  kissed  the 

hour  before. 
And  promised  a  duke's  troth-ring  for 

the  next) 
Than  crush  her  silly  head  with  so 

much  wrong. 
Poor  child  !  I  would  have  mended  it 

with  gold, 
Until  it    gleamed    like    St.   Sophia's 

dome 
When  all  the  faithful  troojj  to  morning 

prayer: 
But  he,  he  nipped  the  bud  of  such  a 

thought 
With  that  cold  Leigh  look  which  I 

fancied  once, 
And  broke  in,  '  Henceforth  she  was 

called  his  wife. 
His  wife  required  no  succor:  he  was 

bound 
To  Florence  to  resume  this  broken 

bond ; 
Enough  so.     Both  were    haj^py,  he 

and  Howe, 
To  acquit  me  of  the  heaviest  charge  of 

all'  — 
—  At  which  I  shot  my  tongue  against 

my  fly. 


A  U  ROE  A  LEIGH. 


And  struck  him:  '  Would  he  carry,  he 

was  just, 
A  letter  from  me  to  Aurora  Leigh, 
And  ratify  from  his  authentic  mouth 
My    answer    to    her    accusation  ? '  — 

'  Yes, 
If    such    a    letter  were    prepared  in 

time.' 
—  He's  just,  your  cousin;  ay,  abhor- 

ently : 
He'd  wash  his  hands  in  blood  to  keep 

them  clean. 
And  so,  cold,  courteous,  a  mere  gen- 
tleman, 
He  bowed,  we  parted. 

"  Parted.    Face  no  more. 
Voice  no  more,  love  no  more  !  wiped 

wholly  out. 
Like  some  ill  scholar's  scrawl  from 

heart  and  slate ; 
Ay,  spit  on,  and  so  wiped  out  utterly, 
By  some  coarse  scholar  !     I  have  been 

too  coarse, 
Too  human.    Have  we  business,  in 

our  rank. 
With  blood  i'  the  veins  ?    I  will  have 

henceforth  none. 
Not  even  to  keep  the  color  at  my  lip. 
A  rose  is  pink    and    pretty   without 

blood ; 
Why  not    a   woman?    When  we've 

played  in  vain 
The  game,   to  adore,  —  we   have  re- 
sources still, 
And  can  play  on,  at  leisure,  being 

adored : 
Here's  Smith  already  swearing  at  my 

feet 
That  I'm  the  typic  she.    Awa'y  with 

Smith  !  — 
Smith  smacks  of  Leigh,  —  and  hence- 
forth I'll  admit 
No  socialist  within  three  crinolines. 
To  live  and  have  his  being.    But  for 

you. 
Though  insolent  your  letter  and  ab- 
surd, 
And  tliough  I  hate  you   frankly, — 

take  my  Smith  ! ' 
For  when  you  have  seeu  this  famous 

marriage  tied, 
A  most  unspotted   Erie  to  a  noble 

Leigli, 
(His  love  astray  on  one  he  should  not 

love) 
Howbeit  you  may  not  want  his  love, 

beware. 
You'll  want  some  comfort.    So  I  leave 

you  Smith; 


Take  Smith  !  —  he  talks  Leigh's  sub- 
jects, somewhat  worse; 
Adopts    a    thought    of    Leigh's,   and 

dwindles  it; 
Goes  leagues  beyond,  to  be  no  inch 

behind ; 
Will  mind  you  of    him,   as  a  shoe- 
string may 
Of  a  man:  and  women  when  they  are 

made  like  you 
Grow  tender  to  a  shoe-string,   foot^ 

print  even. 
Adore  averted  shoulders  in  a  glass, 
And  memories  of  what,  present  once, 

was  loathed. 
And  yet  you  loathed  not  Romney, 

though  you  played 
At  '  fox-and-goose '   about  him   with 

your  soul: 
Pass  OA'er  fox,  you  rub  outfox,  —  ig- 
nore 
A  feeling,  you  eradicate  it  —  the  act's 
Identical. 

"  I  wish  you  joy.  Miss  Leigh, 
You've  made  a  happy  marriage  for 

your  friend, 
And    all     the    honor,    well-assorted 

love. 
Derives  from  you  who  love  him,  whom 

he  loves ! 
You  need  not  wish  me  joy  to  think  of 

it, 
I   have    so  much.    ObserA^e,  Aurora 

Leigh, 
Your  droop  of  eyelid  is  the  same  as 

his. 
And  but  for  you  I  might  have  won 

his  love. 
And  to  you  I  have  shown  my  naked 

heart; 
For  which  three  things,  I  hate,  hate, 

hate  you.    Hush  ! 
Suppose  a  fourth,  —  I  cannot  choose 

but  think 
That,   with   him,  I  were  virtuouser 

than  you 
Without    him:    so  I  hate  you  from 

this  gulf 
And  hollow  of  my  soul  which  opens 

out 
To  what,  except  for  you,  had  been 

my  heaven. 
And  is,  instead,  a  place  to  curse  by  ! 

Love." 

An  active  kind   of   curse.     I  stood 

there  cursed, 
Confounded.   I  had  seized  and  caught 

the  sense 


1G6 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


Of  the  letter,  with  its  twenty  sting- 
ing snakes, 

In  a  moment's  sweep  of  eyesight,  and 
I  stood 

Dazed.     "  Ah  !  not  married." 

"  You  mistake,"  he  said, 

"I'm  married.    Is  not  Marian  Erie 
my  wife  ? 

As  God  sees  things,  I  have  a  wife  and 
child; 

And  I,  as  I'm    a  man  who  honors 
God, 

Am  here  to  claim  them  as  my  child 
and  wife. 

I  felt  it  hard  to  breathe,  much  less  to 

speak. 
Nor  word  of  mine  was  needed.    Some 

one  else 
Was  there    for    answering.     "  Rom- 

ney,"  she  began, 
"  My  great  good  angel,  Romney." 

Then,  at  first, 
I  knew  that  Marian  Erie  was  beauti- 
ful. 
She  stood  there,  still  and  pallid  as  a 

saint, 
Dilated,  like  a  saint  in  ecstasy, 
As  if  the  floating  moonshine  inter- 

posed 
Betwixt  her  foot  and  the  earth,  and 

raised  her  up 
To  fioat  upon  it.     "I  had   left  my 

child. 
Who  sleeps,"  she  said,  "aud,  having 

drawn  this  way, 
I  heard  you  speaking  .  .  .  friend  !  — 

Confirm  me  now. 
You  take  this  Marian,  such  as  wicked 

men 
Have  made  her,  for  your  honorable 

wife?" 

The  thrilling,  solemn,  proud,  pathetic 

voice. 
He    stretched    his  arms  out  toward 

that  thrilling  voice. 
As  if  to  draw  it  on  to  his  embrace. 

—  "I take  her  as  God  made  her,  and 

as  men 
Must  fail  to  unmake  her,  for  my  hon- 
ored wife." 

She  never  raised  her  eyes,  nor  took  a 

step. 
But    stood  there   in  her  place,   aud 

spoke  again. 

—  "You    take   this   Marian's    child, 

which  is  her  sliame 


In  sight  of  men  and  women,  for  your 

child. 
Of   whom    j'ou   will    not    ever   feel 

ashamed?" 

The  thrilling,  tender,  proud,  pathetic 

voice. 
He  stepped  on  toward  it,  still  with 

outstretched  arms. 
As  if  to  quench  upon  his  breast  that 

voice. 

—  "May  God   so   father  me   as  I  do 

him. 
And  so  forsake  me  as  I  let  him  feel 
He's  orphaned  haply.    Here  I  take 

the  child 
To  share  my  cup,  to  slumber  on  my 

knee. 
To  play  his  loudest   gambol  at  my 

foot. 
To    hold    my    finger    in    the    public 

ways. 
Till  none  shall  need  inquire,  '  Whose 

child  is  this  ?  ' 
The  gesture  saying  so  tenderly,  '  Mj-^ 

own.'  " 

She    stood  a  moment    silent  in  her 

place  ; 
Then  turning   toward  me  very  slow 

and  cold, 

—  "  And    you,  —  what    say    you  ?  — 

will  you  blame  me  much. 
If,  careful  for  that  outcast  child   of 

mine, 
I  catch  this  hand  that's  stretched  to 

me  and  him. 
Nor  dare  to  leave  him  friendless  in 

the  world 
Where  men  have  stoned  me  ?    Have 

I  not  the  right 
To  take  so  mere  an  aftermath   from 

life, 
Else  found  so  wholly  bare  ?    Or  is  it 

wrong 
To  let  your  cousin,  for  a  generous 

bent. 
Put  out  his  ungloved  fingers  among 

briers 
To  set  a  tumbling  bird's  nest  some- 
what straight  ? 
You  will  not  tell  him,  though  we're 

innocent, 
We  are   not  harmless  .  .  .  and  that 

both  our  harms 
Will  stick  to  his  good,  smooth,  noble 

life  like  burrs, 
Never  to  drop  off,  though  he  shakes 

the  cloak  ? 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


16' 


You've  been  my  friend:  you  will  not 

now  be  his  ? 
You've  known  him  that  he's  worthy 

of  a  fi-iend, 
And  you're  his  cousin,  lady,  after  all, 
And  therefore  more  than  free  to  take 

his  part. 
Explaining,  since  the  nest  is  surely 

spoilt, 
And  Marian  what  you   know  her,  — 

though  a  wife. 
The  world  would  hardly  understand 

her  case 
Of  being  just  hurt  and  honest;  while 

for  him, 
'Twould  ever  twit  him  with  his  bas- 
tard child 
And  married    harlot.      Speak   while 

yet  there's  time. 
You  would  not  stand  and  let  a  good 

man's  dog 
Turn  round  and  rend   him,  because 

his,  and  reared 
Of  a  generous  breed;  and  will  you 

let  his  act. 
Because  it's  generous  ?    Speak.     I'm 

bound  to  you. 
And  I'll  be  bound  by  ouly  you    in 

this." 
The  thrilling,  solemn  voice,  so   pas- 
sionless. 
Sustained,  yet  low,  without  a  rise  or 

fall. 
As  one  who  had  authority  to  speak, 
And  not  as  Marian. 

I  looked  up  to  feel 
If  God  stood  near  me,  and  beheld  his 

heaven 
As  blue  as  Aaron's  priestly  robe  ap- 
peared 
To  Aaron  when  he  took  it  off  to  die. 
And    then   I    spoke,  —  "Accept    the 

gift,  I  say, 
My  sister  Marian,  and  be  satisfied. 
The  hand  that  gives  has  still  a  soul 

behind 
"Which  will  not  let  it  quail  for  having 

given, 
Though  foolish  worldlings  talk  they 

know  not  what 
Of  what  they  know   not.    Romuey's 

strong  enough 
For  this:  do  you  be  strong  to  know 

he's  strong. 
He    stands    on    right's    side:    never 

flinch  for  him. 
As  if  he  stood  on  the  other.     You'll 

be  bound 
By  me  ?    I  am  a  woman  of  repute ; 


No  fly-blow  gossip  ever  specked  my 

life; 
My  name  is  clean  and  open  as  this 

hand, 
Whose  glove  there's  not  a  man  dares 

blab  about. 
As  if  he  had  touched  it  freely.   Here's 

my  hand 
To    clasp    your    hand,    my    Marian, 

owned  as  pure  !  — 
As  pure,    as    I'm  a  woman    and    a 

Leigh ; 
And,  as  I'm  both,  I'll  witness  to  the 

world 
That  Romney  Leigh  is  honored  in  his 

choice 
Who  chooses  Marian  for  his  honored 

wife." 

Her  broad  wild  woodland  eyes  shot 
out  a  light; 

Her  smile  was  wonderful  for  raptiire. 
"  Thanks, 

My  great  Aurora."      Forward    then 
she  sprang, 

And,  dropping  her  impassioned  span- 
iel head 

With  all  its  brown  abandonment  of 
curls 

On  Romney's  feet,  we  heard  the  kisses 
drawn 

Through  sobs  upon  the  foot,  upon  the 
ground  — 

"  O  Romney !    O  my  angel  !    O  un- 
changed ! 

Though  since  we've    parted  I  have 
passed  the  grave. 

But  death  itself  could  only  better  thee. 

Not  change  thee.     Thee  I  do  not  thank 
at  all : 

I  but  thank  God  who  made  thee  what 
thou  art, 

So  wholly  godlike." 

When  he  tried  in  vaiu 

To  raise  her  to  his  embrace,  escaping 
thence 

As  any  leaping  fawn  from  a  hunts- 
man's grasp, 

She  bounded  off,  and  'lighted  beyond 
reach, 

Before  him,  with  a  staglike  majesty 

Of     soft,     serene    defiance,    as     she 
knew 

He  could  not  touch  her,  so  was  toler- 
ant 

He  had  cared  to  try.     She  stood  there 
with  her  great 

Drowned  eyes,  and  dripping  cheeks, 
and  strange  sweet  smile 


168 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


That  lived  through  all,  as  if  one  held 

a  light 
Across    a  waste   of    waters, —  shook 

her  head 
To  keep  some  thoughts  down  deeper 

in  her  soul,  — 
Then,  white  and  tranquil  like  a  sum- 
mer-cloud, 
Which,  having  rained  itself  to  a  tardy 

peace, 
Stands  still  in  heaven  as  if  it  ruled 

the  day, 
Spoke  out    again,  —  "Although,  my 

generous  friend. 
Since  last  we  met  and  parted  you're 

unchanged. 
And,  having  promised  faith  to  Marian 

Erie, 
Maintain  it,  as  she  were  not  changed 

at  all  ; 
And    though  that's  worthy,   though 

that's  full  of  balm 
To  any  conscious  spirit  of  a  girl 
Who  once  has  loved  you  as  I  loved 

you  once,  — 
Yet  still  it  will  not  make  her  ...  if 

she's  dead, 
And  gone  away  where  none  can  give 

or  take 
In  marriage,  —  able  to  revive,  return 
And  wed  you,  —  will  it,    Romney  ? 

Here's  the  point  ; 
My  friend,  we'll  see  it  plainer :  you 

and  I 
Must  never,  never,  never  join  hands 

so. 
Nay,  let  me  say  it ;  for  I  said  it  first 
To  God,  and  placed  it,  rounded  to  an 

oath. 
Far,  far  above  the  moon  there,  at  his 

feet. 
As   surely  as    I    wept   just   now  at 

yours,  — 
We  never,  never,  never  join  hands  so. 
And  now,  be  patient  with  me  :  do  not 

think 
I'm  speaking  from  a  false  humility. 
The  truth  is,  I  am  grown  so  proud 

with  grief. 
And  He  has  said  so  often  through  his 

nights 
And   through  his  mornings,   '  Weep 

a  little  still, 
Thou  foolish  Marian,  because  women 

must. 
But  do  not  blush  at  all  except  for 

sin,'  — 
That  I,   who  felt  myself    unworthy 

once 


Of    virtuous  Romney  and  his  high- 
born race, 
Have  come  to  learn,  —  a  woman,  poor 

or  rich. 
Despised  or  honored,  is  a  human  soul, 
And   what  her  soul    is,   that  she  is 

herself, 
Although  she  should  be  spit  upon  of 

men. 
As  is  the  pavement  of  the  churches 

here, 
Still  good  enough  to  pray  in.    And 

being  chaste 
And  honest,  and  inclined  to  do  the 

right. 
And  love  the  truth,  and  live  my  life 

out  green 
And    smooth    beneath    his    steps,    I 

should  not  fear 
To  make  him  thus  a  less  uneasy  time 
Than  many  a  hapiner  woman.    Very 

proud 
You  see  me.    Pardon,  that  I  set  a  trap 
To  hear  a  confirmation  in  your  voice, 
Both  yours  and  yours.    It  is  so  good 

to  know 
'Twas  really  God  who  said  the  same 

before  ; 
And  thus  it  is  in  heaven,  that  first 

God  speaks. 
And  then  his  angels.    Oh,  it  does  me 

good, 
It  wipes  me  clean  and  sweet  from 

devil's  dirt. 
That  Romney  Leigh  should  think  me 

worthy  still 
Of  being  his  true  and  honorable  wife  ! 
Henceforth  I  need  not  say,  on  leaving 

earth, 
I  had  no  glory  in  it.    For  the  rest. 
The   reason's   ready  (master,  angel, 

friend, 
Be  patient  with  me)  wherefore  you 

and  I 
Can  never,  never,  never  join  hands 

so. 
I  know  you'll  not  be  angry  like  a  man 
(For  you  are  none)  when  I  shall  tell 

the  truth. 
Which  is,  I  do  not  love  you,  Romney 

Leigh, 
I  do  not  love  you.    Ah,  well !  catch 

ray  hands, 
Miss  Leigh,  and  burn  into  my  eyes 

with  yours,  — 
I  swear  I  do  not  love  him.    Did  I 

once? 
'Tis    said    that   women    have   been 

bruised  to  death, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


169 


And  yet,  if  once  they  loved,  that  love 

of  theirs 
Could  never  be  drained  out  with  all 

their  blood  : 
I've  heard  such  things  and  pondered. 

Did  I  indeed 
Love  once  ?  or  did  I  only  worship  ? 

Yes, 
Perhaps,  O  friend,   I  set  you  up  so 

high 
Above  all  actual  good,  or  hope  of  good, 
Or  fear  of  evil,  all  that  could  be  mine, 
I  haply  set  you  above  love  itself, 
And  out  of  reach  of  these  poor  wo- 
man's arms, 
Angelic  Romnev.     What  was  in  my 

thought?  " 
To  be  your  slave,  your  help,  your  toy, 

your  tool. 
To  be  your  love  ...  I  never  thought 

of  that. 
To  give  you  love  .  .  .  still  less.     I 

gave  you  love  ? 
I  think  I  did  not  give  you  any  thing  ; 
I  was    but    only  yours,  —  upon    my 

knees. 
All  yours,  in  soul  and  body,  in  head 

and  heart,  — 
A  creature  you  had   taken  from  the 

ground, 
Still  crumbling  through  your  fingers 

to  your  feet 
To  join  the  dust  she  came  from.    Did 

I  love, 
Or  did   I   worship?    Judge,   Aurora 

Leigh  ! 
But,   if   indeed   I  loved,    'twas   long 

ago. 
So  long! — before  the  sun  and  moon 

were  made. 
Before  the  hells  were  open,  ah,  be- 
fore 
I   heard  my  child  cry  in  the  desert 

night, 
And  knew  he  had  no  father.    It  may 

be 
I'm  not  as  strong  as  other  women 

are, 
Who,  torn  and  crushed,  are  not  un- 
done from  love. 
It  may  be  I  am  colder  than  the  dead, 
Who,  being  dead,  love  always.     But 

for  me. 
Once    killed,    this    ghost    of    Marian 

loves  no  more. 
No  more  .  .  .  except  the    child  .  .  . 

no  more  at  all. 
I   told  your  cousin,   sir,  that  I  was 

dead  ; 


And  now  she  thinks  I'll  get  up  from 

my  grave, 
And  wear  my  chin-cloth  for  a  wed- 
ding-veil, 
And  glide  along  the  churchyard  like 

a  bride. 
While  all  the  dead  keep  whispering 

through  the  withes, 
'  You  would  be  better  in  your  place 

with  us, 
You    pitiful    corruption ! '     At     the 

thought. 
The  damps  break  out  on  me  like  lep- 
rosy. 
Although  I'm  clean.    Ay,   clean    as 

Marian  Erie  ! 
As  Marian  Leigh,  I  know  I  were  not 

clean: 
Nor  have  I  so  much  life  that  I  should 

love, 
Except  the  child.    Ah  God  !  I  could 

not  bear 
To  see  my  darling  on  a  good  man's 

knees, 
And  know  by  such  a  look,  or  such  a 

sigh. 
Or  such  a  silence,  that  he  thought 

sometimes. 
'This    child  was  fathered   by  some 

cursed  wretch '  .  .  . 
For,  Romney,  angels  are  less  tender- 
wise 
Than  God  and  mothers:    even    yo^i 

would  think 
What  ive  think  never.    He  is  ours, 

the  child; 
And  we  would  sooner  vex  a  soul  in 

heaven 
By  coupling  witli  it  the  dead  body's 

thought 
It  left  behind  it  in   a  last  month's 

grave 
Than  in  my  child  see  other  than  .  .  . 

my  child. 
We  only  never  call  him  fatherless 
Who  has  God  and  his  mother.     O  my 

babe. 
My    pretty,    pretty    blossom    an    ill 

wind 
Once  blew  upon  my  breast !    Can  any 

think 
I'd  have  another,  —  one  called  hap- 
pier, 
A  fathered  child,  with  father's  love 

and  race 
That's  worn  as   bold  and  open  as  a 

smile. 
To  vex  my  darling  when  he's  asked 

his  name 


h 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


And  has  no  answer  ?    What !  a  hap- 
pier child 
Than  mine,  my  best,  who  laughed  so 

loud  to-night 
He  could  not  sleep  for  pastime  ?   Nay, 

I  swear 
By  life  and  love,  that  if  I  lived  like 

some, 
And   loved  like  .  .  .  some,  ay,  loved 

you,  Romney  Leigh, 
As  some  love,  (eyes  that  have  wept 

so  much  see  clear) 
I've  room  for  no  more  children  in  mj' 

arms. 
My    kisses    are    all    melted    on    one 

mouth, 
I  would  not  push  ray  darling  to  a 

stool 
To    dandle    babies.    Here's    a   hand 

shall  keep 
Forever  clean  without    a    marriage- 
ring. 
To  tend  my  boy  until  he  cease  to  need 
One  steadying  finger  of  it,  and  desert 
(Not  miss)  his    mother's   lap    to    sit 

with  men. 
And  when  I  miss  him  (not  he  me)  I'll 

come 
And  say, '  Now  give  me  some  of  Rom- 

ney's  work,  — 
To  help  your  outcast  orphans  of  the 

world 
And  comfort  grief  with  grief.'     For 

you,  meantime. 
Most    noble    Romney,   wed    a  noble 

wife. 
And  open   on  each  other  your  great 

souls: 
I  need  not  farther  bless  you.    If  I 

dared 
But  strain  and  touch  her  in  her  upper 

sphere 
And  say,  '  Come  down  to  Romney  — 

pay  my  debt !  ' 
I  should  be  joyful  with  the  stream  of 

joy 
Sent  through  me.    But  the  moon  is  in 

my  face  .  .  . 
I  dare  not,  —  though  I  guess  the  name 

he  loves: 
I'm   learned  with  my  studies  of  old 

days. 
Remembering    how  he    crushed    his 

under  lip 
When  some  one  came  and  spoke,  or 

did  not  come: 
Aurora,  I  could  touch  her  with  my 

hand, 
And  tiy  because  I  dare  uot." 


She  was  gone. 
He  smiled  so  sternly  that  I  spoke  in 

haste. 
"Forgive  her— she  sees  clearly  for 

herself: 
Her  instinct's  holy." 

"  /  forgive  !  "  he  said, 
"  I  only  marvel  how  she  sees  so  sure. 
While  others  "  .  .  .  there  he  paused, 

then  hoarse,  abrupt, — 
"  Aurora,  you  forgive  us,  her  and  me  ? 
For  her,  the  thing  she  sees,  poor  loyal 

child. 
If  once  corrected  by  the  thing  I  know. 
Had  been  unspoken,  since  she  loves 

you  well. 
Has  leave  to  love  you;  while  for  me, 

alas ! 
If  once  or  twice  I  let  my  heart  escape 
This     night  .  .  .  remember,     where 

hearts  slip  and  fall 
They  break  beside:  we're  parting, — 

parting,  — ah. 
You  do  not  love,   that    you    should 

surely  know 
What  that  word  means.     Forgive,  be 

tolerant: 
It  had  not  been,  but  that  I  felt  myself 
So  safe  In  impuissance  and  despair 
I  could  not  hurt  you,  though  I  tossed 

my  arms 
And  sighed  my  soul  out.    The  most 

utter  wretch 
Will  choose  his    postures  when    he 

comes  to  die, 
However  in  the  presence  of  a  queen; 
And  you'll  forgive  me  some  unseemly 

spasms 
Which  meant  no  more  than  dying. 

Do  you  think 
I  had  ever  come  here  in  mj"^  perfect 

mind, 
Unless  I  had  come  here  in  my  settled 

mind 
Bound  Marian's,  —  bound  to  keep  the 

bond,  and  give 
My  name,  my  house,  my   hand,  the 

things  i  could. 
To  Marian  ?    For  even  /  could  give 

as  much: 
Even  I,  affronting  her  exalted  soul 
By  a   supposition    that    she   wanted 

these. 
Could  act  the  husband's  coat  and  hat 

set  up 
To  creak  i'  the  wind,  and  drive  the 

world-crows  off 
From  pecking  in  her  garden.    Straw 

can  fill 


II 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


171 


A  hole  to  keep  out  vermin.     Now,  at 

last, 
T  own  heaven's  angels  round  her  life 

suffice 
To  fight  the  rats  of  our  society, 
Without  this  Romney.    I  can  see  it 

at  last; 
And    here    is    ended    my  pretension 

which 
The  most  pretended.    Over-proud  of 

coui'se. 
Even    so !  —  but    not    so    stupid  .  .  . 

blind  .  .  .  that  I, 
Whom  thus  the  great  Taskmaster  of 

the  world 
Has  set  to  meditate  mistaken  work,  — 
My  dreary  face  against  a  dim  Itlank 

wall 
Throughout  man's  natural  lifetime,  — 

could  pretend 
Or  wish  .  .  .  O  love,   I    have    loved 

you  !    O  my  soul, 
I  have  lost  you  !    But  I  swear  by  all 

yourself, 
And  all  you  might  liave  been  to  nie 

these  years 
If  that  June  morning  had  not  failed 

my  hope, 
I'm  not  so  bestial  to  regret  that  day 
This  night,  —  this  night,  which  still 

to  you  is  fair; 
Nay,  not  so  blind,  Aurora.    I  attest 
Those  stars  above  us  which  I  cannot 

see  "... 

"  You  cannot "... 
"  That  if  Hea;ven  itself  should  stoop, 
Remix  the  lots,  and  give  me  another 

chance, 
I'd  say,  '  No  other  ! '     I'd  record  my 

blank. 
Aurora    never    should    be    wife    of 

mine." 

"  Not  see  the  stars  ?  " 

"  'Tis  worse  still  not  to  see 
To  find  your  hand,  although  we're 

parting,  dear. 
A  moment  let  me  hold  it  ere  we  part, 
And    understand    my    last    words  — 

these  at  last !  — 
1  would  not  have  you  thinking  when 

I'm  gone 
That    Romney  dared    to  hanker  for 

your  love 
In  thought  or  vision,  if  attainable, 
(Which  certainly  for  me  it  never  was) 
And  wished  to  use  it  for  a  dog  to- 
day 


To    help   the   blind   man   stumbling. 

God  forbid  ! 
And  now  I  know  he  held  j'ou  in  his 

palm, 
And  kept  you  open-eyed  to  all  my 

faults. 
To  save  you  at  last  from  such  a  dreary 

end. 
Believe  me.  dear,  that  if  I  had  known, 

like  him. 
What  loss  was  coming  on  me,  I  had 

done 
As  well  in  this  as  he  has.  —  Farewell 

you 
Who  are  still  my   light,  —  farewell! 

How  late  it  is  ! 
I  know  that  now.    You've  been  too 

patient,  sweet. 
I  will   but  blow  my  whistle  toward 

the  lane, 
And  some  one  comes,  —  the  same  who 

brought  me  here. 
Get  in.     Good-night." 

"  A  moment.     Heavenly  Christ ! 
A  moment.     Speak    once,   Romney. 

'Tis  not  true. 
I  hold  your  hands,  I  look  into  your 

face  — 
You  see  me?" 

"  No  more  than  the  blessed  stars. 
Be    blessed    too,   Aurora.     Nay,   my 

sweet, 
You   tremble.     Tender-hearted  !    Do 

you  mind 
Of  yore,  dear,  how  you  used  to  cheat 

old  John, 
And  let  the  mice  out  slyly  from  his 

traps. 
Until  he  marvelled  at  the  soul  in  mice 
Which  took  the  cheese,  and  left  the 

snare  ?    The  same 
Dear  soft  heart  always  !     'Twas  for 

this  I  grieved 
Howe's    letter    never   reached    you. 

Ah,  you  had  heard 
Of  illness,  not  the  issue,  not  the  ex- 
tent, — 
My  life  long  sick  with  tossings  up  and 

down. 
The  sudden  revulsion  in  the  blazing 

house. 
The  strain  and  struggle  both  of  body 

and  soul. 
Which  left  fire  running  in  my  veins 

for  blood 
Scarce  lacked  that  thunderbolt  of  the 

falling  beam 
Which  nicked  me  ou  the  forehead  as 

I  passed 


172 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


The  gallery-door  with  a  burden.     Say 

heaven's  bolt, 
Not    William    Erie's,    not    Marian's 

father's,  —  tramp 
And  poacher,  whom  I  found  for  what 

he  was, 
And,  eager  for  her  sake   to    rescue 

him. 
Forth  swept  from  the  open  highway 

of  the  world. 
Road-dust  and  all,  till,  like  a  wood- 
land boar 
Most  naturally  unwilling  to  be  tamed, 
He  notched  me  with  his  tooth.     But 

not  a  word 
To  Marian  !    And  I  do  not  think,  be- 
sides, 
He  turned  the  tilting  of  the  beam  my 

way; 
And  if  he  laughed,  as  many  swear, 

poor  wretch, 
Nor  he  nor  I  supposed  the  hurt  so 

deep. 
We'll   hope  his  next  laugh  may  be 

merrier. 
In  a  better  cause." 

"  Blind,  Romney?" 
'  "  Ah,  my  friend, 

You'll  learn  to  say  it  in  a  cheerful 

voice. 
I,   too,   at    first   desjionded.     To    be 

blind. 
Turned  out  of  nature,  mulcted  as  a 

man. 
Refused  the  daily  largess  of  the  sun 
To    humble    creatures !     When    the 

fever's  heat 
Dropped  from  me,  as  the  flame  did 

from  my  house, 
And  left  me  ruined  like  it,  stripped  of 

all 
The  hues  and  shapes  of  aspectable 

life, 
A  mere  bare  blind  stone  in  the  blaze 

of  day, 
A  man,  upon  the  outside  of  the  earth. 
As  dark  as  ten    feet  under,   in  the 

grave, — 
Why,  that  seemed  hard." 

"No  hope?" 

"  A  tear  !  you  weep. 
Divine     Aurora?     tears     upon     my 

hand  ! 
I've  seen  you  weeping  for  a  mouse,  a 

bird,  — 
But,   weep    for    me,    Aurora?     Yes, 

there's  hope. 
No     hope    of     sight :      I    could    be 

learned,  dear, 


And  tell  you  in  what  Greek  and  Latin 

name 
The  visiial  nerve  is  withered  to  the 

root, 
Though  the  outer  eyes  appear  indif- 
ferent, 
Unspotted     in    their    crystals.      But 

there's  hope. 
The    spirit,    from    behind    this    de- 
throned sense, 
Sees,  waits  in  patience  till  the  walls 

break  up 
From  which  the  bas-relief  and  fresco 

have  dropt: 
There's  hope.    The  man  here,  once  so 

arrogant 
And  restless,   so    ambitious,   for  his 

part, 
Of  dealing  with  statistically  packed 
Disorders  (from  a  pattern  on  his  nail), 
And  packing  such  things  quite  an- 
other way. 
Is  now  contented.     From  his  personal 

loss 
He  has  come  to  hope  for  others  when 

they  lose, 
And  wear  a  gladder  faith  in  what  we 

gain  .  .  . 
Through   bitter  experience,  compen- 
sation sweet. 
Like  that  tear,  sweetest.     I  am  quiet 

now. 
As  tender   surely   for    the    suffering 

world, 
But    quiet,  —  sitting    at    the  wall  to 

learn. 
Content  henceforth  to  do  the  thing  I 

can; 
For  though  as  powerless,  said  I,  as  a 

stone, 
A  stone  can  still  give  shelter  to  a 

worm. 
And  it  is  worth  while  being  a  stone 

for  that. 
There's  hope,  Aurora." 

"  Is  there  hope  for  me  ? 
For  me  ?  —  and  is  there  room  beneath 

the  stone 
For  such  a  worm  ?    And  if  I  came 

and  said  .  .  . 
What  all  this  weeping  scarce  will  let 

me  say, 
And  yet  what  women  cannot  say  at 

all 
But  weeping  bitterly  .  .  .  (the  pride 

keeps  up 
Until  the  heart  breaks  under  it)  .  ,  . 

I  love, — 
I  love  you,  Romney  "  .  .  . 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


173 


"  Silence  !  "  he  exclaimed. 
"  A  woman's  pity  sometimes  makes 

her  mad. 
A  man's  distraction  must  not  cheat 

liis  soul 
To    take    advantage  of    it.    Yet   'tis 

hard  — 
Farewell,  Aurora." 

"  But  I  love  you,  sir; 
And  when  a  woman  says  she  loves  a 

man, 
The  man  must  hear  her,  though  he 

love  her  not, 
Which  .  .  .  hush !  ...  he  has  leave 

to  answer  in  his  turn: 
She  will  not  surely  blame   him.    As 

for  me, 
You  call  it  pity,  think  I'm  generous  ? 
'Twere  somewhat  easier,  for  a  woman 

proud 
As  I  am,  and  I'm  very  vilely  proud. 
To  let  it  pass  as  such,  and  press  on 

you 
Love  born  of  pity, — seeing  that  ex- 
cellent love.s 
Are  born  so,  often,  nor  the  quicklier 

die,  — 
And  this  would  set  me  higher  by  the 

head 
Than  now  I  stand.     No  matter.     Let 

the  truth 
Stand  high;  Aurora  must  be  humble  : 

no, 
My  love's  not  pity  merely.    Obviously 
I'm  not    a   generous  woman,   never 

was, 
Or  else,  of  old,  I  had  not  looked  so 

near 
To  weights  and  measures,  grudging 

you  the  power 
To  give,  as  first  I  scorned  your  power 

to  judge 
For  me,  Aurora.    I  would  have  no 

gifts 
Forsooth,  but  God's  ;  and  I  would  use 

them,  too. 
According  to  my  pleasure   and    my 

choice. 
As  he  and  I  were  equals,  yovi  below, 
Excluded  from  that   level   of    inter- 
change 
Admitting    benefaction.      You    were 

wrong 
In  much  ?  you  said  so.    I  was  wrong 

in  most. 
Oh,  most !    You  only  thought  to  res- 
cue men 
By  half-means,  half-way,  seeing  half 

their  wants, 


While  thinking  nothing  of  your  per- 
sonal gain. 

But  I,  who  saw  the  human  nature 
broad 

At  both  sides,  comprehending  too 
the  soul's, 

And  all  the  high  necessities  of  art, 

Betrayed  the  thing  I  saw,  and 
wronged  my  own  life 

For  which  I  pleaded.  Passioned  to 
exalt 

The  artist's  instinct  in  me  at  the  cost 

Of  putting  down  the  woman's,  I  for- 
got 

No  perfect  artist  is  developed  here 

From  any  imperfect  woman.  Flower 
from  root. 

And  spiritual  from  natural,  grade  by 
grade 

In  all  our  life.    A  handful  of  the  earth 

To  make  God's  image  !  the  despised 
poor  earth, 

The  healthy  odorous  earth, — I  missed, 
with  it 

The  divine  breath  that  blows  the  nos- 
trils out 

To  ineffable  inflatus,  —  ay,  the  breath 

Which  love  is.  Art  is  much  ;  but  love 
is  more. 

0  art,  my  art,  thou'rt  much  ;  but  love 

is  more  ! 
Art  symbolizes  heaven  ;    but  love  is 

God, 
And  makes  heaven.    I,  Aurora,  fell 

from  mine. 

1  would  not  be  a  woman  like  the  rest, 
A  simple    woman    who    believes    in 

love. 

And  owns  the  right  of  love  because 
she  loves. 

And,  hearing  she's  beloved,  is  satis- 
fied 

With  what  contents  God  :  I  must 
analyze. 

Confront,  and  question,  just  as  if  a 

fly 

Refused  to  warm  itself  in  any  sun 
Till  such  was  in  leone  :  I  must  fret, 
Forsooth,    because    the    month    was 

only  May, 
Be  faithless  of  the  kind  of  proffered 

love, 
And  captious,  lest  it  miss  my  dignity, 
And  scornful,  that  my  lover  sought  a 

wife 
To  use  ...  to  use  !     O  Romney,    O 

my  love  ! 
I   am  changed  since    then,   changed 

whollv  ;  for  indeed 


174 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


If  now  you'd  stoop  so  low  to  take  my 

love, 
And  use  it  roughly,  without  stint  or 

spare, 
As  men  use  common  things  with  more 

behind, 
(And,  in  this,  ever  would  be  more  be- 
hind) 
To  any  mean  and  ordinary  end. 
The  joy  would  set  me,  like  a  star  in 

heaven. 
So  high  up,  I  should  shine  because  of 

height. 
And  not  of  virtue.    Yet  in  one  respect. 
Just  one,  beloved,  I  am  in  no  wise 

changed  : 
I  love  you,  loved  you  .  .  .  loved  you 

first  and  last, 
And  love  you  on  forever.      Now  I 

know 
I  loved  you  always,  Romney.     She 

who  died 
Knew  that,  and  said  so  ;  Lady  Walde- 

uiar 
Knows  that  .  .  .  and  Marian.     I  had 

known  the  same. 
Except  that  I  was  prouder  than    I 

knew. 
And  not  so  honest.    Ay,  and  as  I  live, 
I  should  have  died  so,  crushing  in  my 

hand 
This  rose  of  love,  the  wasp  inside  and 

all, 
Ignoring  ever  to  my  soul  and  you 
Both  rose  and  pain,  —  except  for  this 

great  loss, 
This  great  despair,  —  to  stand  before 

your  face 
And  know  you  do  not  see  me  where  I 

stand. 
You  think,  jierhaps,  I  am  not  changed 

from  pride, 
And  that  I  chiefly  bear  to  say  such 

words 
Because  you  cannot  shame  me  with 

your  eyes  ? 

0  calm,  grand  eyes,  extinguished  in  a 

storm. 

Blown  out  like  lights  o'er  melancholy 
seas, 

Though  shrieked  for  by  the  ship- 
wrecked !  O  my  Dark, 

My  Cloud,  —  to  go  before  me  every 
day, 

While  I  go  ever  toward  the  wilder- 
ness, — 

1  would  that  you  could  see  me  bare  to 

the  soul ! 
If  this  be  pity,  'tis  so  for  myself. 


And  not  for  Romney  :  he  can  stand 

alone  ; 
A  man  like  him  is  never  overcome  : 
No  woman  like  me  counts  him  pitia- 
ble 
While  saints  apjilaud  him.     He  mis- 
took the  world  ; 
But  I  mistook  my  own  heart,  and  that 

slip 
Was  fatal.    Romney,  will  you  leave 

me  here  ? 
So  wrong,  so  proud,  so  weak,  so  un- 

consoled, 
So  mere  a  woman  !  —  and  I  love  you 

so, 
I  love  you,  Romney  "  — 

Could  I  see  his  face 
I  wept  so  ?    Did  I  drop  against  his 

breast. 
Or  did  his  arms  constrain  me  ?    Were 

my  cheeks 
Hot,  overflooded,  with  my  tears,  or 

his? 
And  which  of  our  two  large  explosive 

hearts 
So  shook  me  ?     That    I    know  not. 

There  were  words 
That  broke  in  utterance  .  .  .  melted 

in  the  fire  ; 
Embrace    that  was    convulsion  .    .  . 

then  a  kiss 
As  long  and    silent   as    the  ecstatic 

night. 
And  deep,  deep,  shuddering  breaths, 

which  meant  beyond 
Whatever  could  be  told  by  word  or 

kiss. 

But  what  he  said  ...  I  have  written 

day  by  day. 
With  somewhat  even  writing.    Did  I 

think 
That  such  a  passionate  rain  would 

intercept 
And  dash  this  last  page  ?    What  he 

said, indeed, 
I  fain  would  write  it  down  here  like 

the  rest. 
To  keep  it  in  my  eyes,  as  in  my  ears. 
The  heart's  sweet  scrijiture,  to  be  read 

at  night 
When  weary,   or  at    morning  when 

afraid, 
And  lean  my  heaviest  oath  on  when 

I  swear. 
That  when  all's  done,  all  tried,  all 

counted  here, 
All  great  arts,  and  all  good  philoso- 
phies, 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


175 


This  love  just  puts  its  hand  out  in  a 

dream, 
And  straight  outstretches  all  things. 

What  he  said 
I  fain  would  write.     But,  if  an  angel 

spoke 
In   thunder,  should  we  haply  know 

much  more 
Than  that  it  thundered  ?    If  a  cloud 

came  down 
And  wrapt  us  wholly,  could  we  draw 

its  shape, 
As  if  on  the  outside,  and  not  over- 
come? 
And  so  he  spake.    His  breath  against 

my  face 
Confused  his  words,  yet  made  them 

more  intense, — 
(As  when  the  sudden  finger  of  the 

wind 
Will  wipe  a  row  of  single  city  lamps 
To  a  pure  white  line  of  flame,  more 

luminous 
Because  of  obliteration)  more  intense. 
The    intimate    presence    carrying  in 

itself 
Comi^lete    communication,    as    with 

souls, 
Who,  having  put  the   body  off,  per- 
ceive 
Through  simply   being.    Thus  'twas 

granted  me 
To  know  he  loved  me  to  the  depth 

and  height 
Of  such  large  natures,  ever  compe- 
tent. 
With  grand   horizons  by  the  sea  or 

land, 
To     love's     grand      suni-ise.      Small 

spheres  hold  small  fires; 
But  he  loved  largely,  as  a  man  can 

love, 
Who,  bafHed  in   his   love,  dares  live 

his  life. 
Accept  the  ends  which  God  loves,  for 

his  own. 
And  lift  a  constant  aspect. 

From  the  day 
I  brought  to  England  my  poor  search- 
ing face, 
(An    orphan    even    of    my    father's 

grave) 
He    had    loved    me,    watched     me, 

watched  his  soul  in  mine. 
Which  in  me  grew  and  heightened 

into  love. 
For  he,  a  boy  still,  had  been  told  tlie 

tale 
Of  how  a  fairy  bride  from  Italy, 


With  smells  of  oleanders  in  her  hair. 
Was  coming    through    the  vines    to 

touch  his  hand; 
Whereat  the  blood  of  boyhood  on  the 

palm 
Made  sudden  heats.    And  when  at 

last  I  came, 
And    lived    before    him,    lived,    and 

rarely  smiled. 
He  smiled,  and  loved  me  for  the  thing 

I  was. 
As  every  child  will   love  the  year's 

first  flower, 
(Not  certainly  the  fairest  of  the  year. 
But  in  which  the  complete  year  seems 

to  blow) 
The  poor  sad  snowdrop,  growing  be- 
tween drifts, 
Mysterious  medium  'twixt  the  plant 

and  frost, 
So  faint  with  winter  while  so  quick 

with  spring. 
And  doubtful  if  to  thaw  itself  away 
With  that  snow  near  it.     Not   tliat 

Romney  Leigh 
Had  loved  me  coldly.     If  I  thought 

so  once. 
It  was  as  if  I  had  held  my  hand  in 

fire. 
And  shook  for  cold.     But  now  I  un- 
derstood 
Forever,  that  the  very  fire  and  heat 
Of  troubling  passion  in  him  burned 

him  clear. 
And  shaped  to  dubious  order  word 

and  act ; 
That,  just  because  he  loved  me  over 

all,— 
All  wealth,  all  lands,  all  social  privi- 
lege. 
To  which  chance  made   him    unex- 
pected heir, — 
And  just  because  on  all  these  lesser 

gifts. 
Constrained  by  conscience  and    the 

sense  of  wrong. 
He  had  stamped   with    steady  hand 

God's  arrow-mark 
Of  dedication  to  the  human  need. 
He  thought  it  should  be  so,  too,  with 

his  love. 
He,  passionately  loving,  would  bring 

down 
His  love,  his  life,  his  best,  (because 

the  best) 
His  bride  of  dreams,  who  walked  so 

still  and  high 
Through  flowery  poems,  as   through 

meadow-grass. 


176 


T 


AURORA  LEIGH. 


The  dust  of  goldea  lilies  on  her  feet, 
That  she  should  walk  beside  him  on 

the  rocks 
In  all  that  clang  and  hewing  out  of 

men, 
And  helj)  the  work  of  help  which  was 

his  life. 
And  prove  he  kept  back  nothing,  — 

not  his  soul. 
And  when  I  failed  him,  — for  I  failed 

him,  I,  — 
And  when  it  seemed  he  had  missed 

my  love,  he  thought, 
"  Aurora  makes  room  for  a  working- 
noon," 
And  so,  self-girded  with  torn  strips 

of  hope. 
Took  up  his  life  as  if  it  were  for  death, 
(Just  capable  of  one  heroic  aim) 
And  threw  it  in  the  thickest  of  the 

world. 
At  which  men  laughed  as  if  he  had 

drowned  a  dog. 
No    wonder,  —  since    Aurora    failed 

him  first ! 
The  morning  and  the  evening  made 

his  day. 

But  oh  the  night !  O  bitter-sweet  1  O 

sweet ! 
O  dark,  O  moon  and  stars,  O  ecstasy 
Of    darkness  1    O    great    mystery    of 

love, 
lu    which    absorbed,    loss,    anguish, 

treason's  self, 
Enlarges  rapture,  as  a  pebble  dropt 
In  some  full  winecup  over-brims  the 

wine  ! 
While  we  two  sate  together,  leaned 

that  night 
So  close  my  very  garments  crept  and 

thrilled 
With  strange  electric  life,  and  both 

my  cheeks 
Grew  red,   then   pale,  with  touches 

from  my  hair 
In  which  his  breath  was;  while  the 

golden  moon 
Was  hung  before   our  faces  as    the 

badge 
Of  some  sublime,  inherited  despair. 
Since  ever  to  be  seen  by  only  one,  — 
A  voice  said,  low  and  rapid  as  a  sigh. 
Yet  breaking,  I  felt  conscious,  from  a 

smile, 
"  Thank  God,  who  made  me  blind  to 

make  me  see ! 
Shine  on,  Aurora,   dearest    light    of 

souls, 


Which  rul'st  forevermore   both  day 
and  night ! 

I  am  happy." 

I  flung  closer  to  his  breast, 

As  sword  that  after  battle  flings  to 
sheath ; 

And,  in  that  hurtle  of  united  souls, 

The  mystic  motions  which  in  com- 
mon  moods 

Are  shut  beyond  our  sense  broke  in 
on  us, 

And,  as  we  sate,  we  felt  the  old  eartli 
spin, 

And    all    the    starry    turbulence    of 
worlds 

Swing  round  us  in  their  audient  cir- 
cles, till 

If  that  same  golden  moon  were  over- 
head 

Or  if  beneath  our  feet,  we  did  not 
know. 

And  then  calm,  equal,  smooth  with 
weights  of  joy. 

His  voice  rose,  as  some  chief  musi- 
cian's song 

Amid  the  old  Jewish  temple's  Selali- 
pause, 

And  bade  me  mark  how  we  two  met 
at  last 

Upon  this  moon-bathed  promontory 
of  earth, 

To  give  up  much  on  each  side,  then 
take  all. 

"Beloved,"   it  sang,   "we    must    be 
here  to  work; 

And  men  who  work  can  only  work 
for  men. 

And,  not  to  work  in  vain,  must  com- 
prehend 

Humanity,  and  so  work  humanly. 

And  raise  men's  bodies  still  by  rais- 
ing souls. 

As  God  did  first." 

"  But  stand  upon  the  earth," 

I  said,  "  to  raise  them,  (this  is  human 
too; 

There's  nothing  high  which  has  not 
first  been  low; 

My  humbleness,  said  One,  has  made 
me  great !) 

As  God  did  last." 

"  And  work  all  silently 

And  simply,"  he  returned,  "  as  God 
does  all; 

Distort    our    nature    never    for    our 
work. 

Nor  count  our  right  hands  stronger 
for  being  hoofs. 


i 


AURORA   LETGH. 


i  I 


The  man  most  man,  with  tendercst 

human  hands, 
Works    best    for    men,    as    God    in 

Nazareth." 

He  paused  upon  the  word,  and  then 
resumed : 

"  Fewer  programmes,  we  who  have 
no  prescience. 

Fewer  systems,  we  who  are  held,  and 
do  not  hold. 

Less  mapping  out  of  masses  to  be 
saved, 

By  nations  or  by  sexes.  Fourier's 
void. 

And  Corate  absurd,  and  Cabet, 
puerile. 

Subsist  no  rules  of  life  outside  of 
life, 

No  perfect  manners,  without  Chris- 
tian souls: 

The  Christ  himself  had  been  no  Law- 
giver 

Unless  he  had  given  the  life  too, 
with  the  law." 

I  echoed  thoughtfully,  —  "Tlie  man 

most  man 
Works    best  for  men,   and,   if    most 

man  indeed. 
He  gets  his  manhood  plainest  from 

his  soul; 
While   obviously  this  stringent  soul 

itself 
Obeys  the  old  law  of  development. 
The  Spirit  ever  witnessing  in  ours. 
And  love,  the  soul  of  soul,  within  the 

soul. 
Evolving  it  sublimely.    First,  God's 

love." 

"And  next,"  he  smiled,  "  the  love  of 

wedded  souls, 
Which  still  presents  that  mystery's 

counteriiart. 
Sweet  shadow-rose  upon  the  water  of 

life. 
Of  such  a  mystic  substance,  Sharon 

gave 
A  name  to  !  human,  vital,  fructuous 

rose. 
Whose  calyx  holds  the  multitude  of 

leaves. 
Loves  filial,  loves  fraternal,  neighbor- 
loves 
And  civic,  —  all  fair  petals,  all  good 

scents, 
All  reddened,   sweetened,   from  one 

central  Heart !  " 


"  Alas  !  "  I  cried,  "  it  was  not  long 

ago 
You  swore  this  very  social  rose  smelt 

ill." 

"  Alas  !  "  he  answered,  "  is  it  arose  at 

all? 
The  final's  thankless,  the  fraternal's 

hard, 
The  rest  is  lost.     I  do  but  stand  and 

think. 
Across  the  waters  of  a  troubled  life, 
This  flower  of  heaven  so  vainly  over- 
hangs. 
What  perfect  counterpart  would  be  in 

sight 
If  tanks  were  clearer.     Let  us  clean 

the  tubes, 
And  wait  for  rains.     O  jJoet,  O  my 

love, 
Since   /  was    too    ambitious    in    my 

deed, 
And  thought  to  distance  all  men  in 

success, 
(Till   God  came  on  me,  marked  the 

place,  and  said, 
'  Ill-doer,  henceforth  keep  within  this 

line. 
Attempting  less  than  others;'   and  I 

stand 
And  work  among  Christ's  little  ones, 

content, ) 
Come    thou,    my    compensation,  my 

dear  sight, 
My  morning-star,  my  morning  !   rise 

and  shine. 
And  touch  my  hills  with  radiance  not 

their  own. 
Shine  out  for  two,  Aurora,  and  fulfil 
My  falling-short  that  must  be  !  work 

for  two. 
As  I,  though  thus  restrained,  for  two 

shall  love  ! 
Gaze  on,  with  insolent  vision,  toward 

the  sun. 
And    from    his  visceral    heat    pluck 

out  the  roots 
Of   light  beyond  him.    Art's   a  ser- 
vice, mark: 
A  silver  key  is  given  to  thy  clasp. 
And    thou    shalt    stand    unwearied, 

night  and  day. 
And  fix  it  in  the  hard,  slow-turning 

wards. 
To  open,  so,  that  intermediate  door 
Betwixt  the  different  planes  of  sensu- 
ous form 
And  form  insensuous,   that  inferior 

men 


178 


AURORA   LEIGH. 


May  learn  to  feel  on  still  through 
these  to  those, 

And  bless  thy  ministration.  The 
world  waits 

For  help.  Beloved,  let  us  love  so 
well, 

Our  work  shall  still  be  better  for  our 
love, 

And  still  our  love  be  sweeter  for  our 
work, 

And  both  commended,  for  the  sake  of 
each. 

By  all  true  workers  and  true  lovers 
born. 

Now  press  the  clarion  on  thy  woman's 
lip, 

(Love's  holy  kiss  shall  still  keep  con- 
secrate) 

And  breathe  thy  fine  keen  breath 
along  the  brass. 

And  blow  all  class-walls  level  as  Jeri- 
cho's 

Past  Jordan,  crying  from  the  top  of 
souls. 

To  souls,  that  here  assembled  on 
earth's  flats, 

They  get  them  to  some  purer  emi- 
nence 

Than  any  hitherto  beheld  for  clouds  ! 

What  height  we  know  not,  but  the 
way  we  know. 

And  how,  by  mounting  ever,  we  at- 
tain, 

And  so  climb  on.  It  is  the  hour  for 
souls. 

That  bodies,  leavened  by  the  will  and 
love. 

Be  lightened  to  redemption.  The 
world's  old; 

But  the  old  world  waits  the  time  to 
be  renewed, 


Toward  which  new  hearts  in  individ- 
ual growth 

Must  quicken,  and  increase  to  multi- 
tude 

In  new  dynasties  of  the  race  of  men. 

Developed  whence  shall  grow  spon- 
taneously 

New  churches,  new  economies,  new 
laws 

Admitting  freedom,  new  societies 

Excluding  falsehood:  He  shall  make 
all  new." 

My  Romney  !  —  Lifting  up  my  hand 

in  his. 
As  wheeled  by  seeing  spirits  toward 

tlie  east. 
He  turned  instinctively,  where,  faint 

and  far. 
Along  the  tingling  desert  of  the  sky, 
Bevond  the  circle  of    the  conscious 

hills. 
Were  laid  in  jasper-stone  as  clear  as 

glass 
The  first    foundations  of    that  new, 

near  day 
Which    should    be    builded    out    of 

heaven  to  God. 
He  stood  a  momentwith  erected  brows 
In  silence,  as  a  creature  might  who 

gazed, — 
Stood  calm,  and  fed  his  blind,  majesN 

tic  eyes 
Upon  the  thought  of  perfect  noon: 

and  when 
I  saw  his  soul  saw,  —  "  Jasper  first," 

I  said, 
"  And  second,  sapphire;  third,  chalce% 

dony; 
The    rest    in    order,  —  last,   an    anie' 

thyst." 


A  DRAMA  OF  EXILE. 


Scene.  —  The  outer  side  of  the  gate  of  Eden 
shut  fast  leith  cloud,  from  the  depth  of 
which  revolves  a  sword  of  fire  self- 
moved.  Adam  and  Eve  are  seen  in  the 
distance,  flying  along  the  glare. 

LiTlciPER,  alone. 

Rejoice  in  the  clefts  of  Gehenna, 

My  exiled,  my  host ! 
Earth  has  exiles  as  hopeless  as  when  a 

Heaven's  empire  was  lost. 
Through  the    seams    of    her  shaken 
foundations 

Smoke  up  in  great  joy  ! 
With  the  smoke  of  your  tierce  exulta- 
tions 

Deform  and  destroy ! 
Smoke  up  with  your  lurid  revenges, 

And  darken  the  face 
Of    the    white    heavens,    and    taunt 
them  with  changes 

From  glory  and  grace  ! 
"We  in  falling,  while  destiny  strangles. 

Pull  down  with  us  all. 
Let  them   look  to  the  rest  of  their 
angels ! 

Who's  safe  from  a  fall  ? 
He  saves  not.    Where's  Adam  ?    Can 
pardon 

Requicken  that  sod  ? 
Unkinged  is  the  King  of  the  Garden, 

The  image  of  God. 
Other  exiles  are  cast  out  of  Eden, 

More  curse  has  heen  hurled : 
Come  up,  O  my  locusts,  and  feed  in 

The  green  of  the  world  ! 
Come  up !    we    have    conquered    by 
evil ; 

Good  reigns  not  alone: 
J  prevail  now,  and,  angel  or  devil, 

Inherit  a  throne. 

[In  sudden  apparition  a  watch  of  i?inu- 
merable  angels,  rank  above  rank, 
slopes  up  from  arcncnd  the  gate  to 
the  senith.  The  angel  Gabriel  de- 
scends.] 

Ltic.  Hail,   Gabriel,   the  keeper  of 
the  gate  ! 


Now  that  the  fruit  is  plucked,  prince 
Gabriel, 

I  hold  that  Eden  is  impregnable 

Under  thy  keeping. 
Gab.  Angel  of  the  sin, 

Such  as  thou  standest,  —  pale  in  the 
drear  light 

Which  rounds  the  rebel's  work  with 
Maker's  wrath,  — 

Thou  Shalt  be  an  Idea  to  all  souls, 

A  monumental  melancholy  gloom 

Seen  down  all  ages,  whence  to  mark 
despair. 

And  measure  out  the  distances  from 
good. 

Go  from  us  straightway  ! 
Lvc.  Wherefore  ? 

Gab.  Lucifer, 

Thy  last  step  in  this  place  trod  sor- 
row up. 

Recoil  before  that  sorrow,  if  not  this 
sword. 
Luc.    Angels    are    in    the    world : 
wherefore  not  I  ? 

Exiles  are   in  the  world  :   wherefore 
not  I? 

The  cursed  are  in  the  world:  where- 
fore not  I  ? 
Gab.  Depart ! 

Liic.  And  Where's  the  logic  of  "  de- 
part"? 

Our   lady  Eve    had  half  been  satis- 
fied 

To  obey  her  Maker,  if  I  had  not  learnt 

To    fix    my  postulate    better.     Dost 
thou  dream 

Of  guarding  some  monopoly  in  heav- 
en 

Instead  of  earth  ?    Why,  I  can  dream 
with  thee 

To  the  length  of  thy  wings. 

Gab.  I  do  not  dream. 

This  is  not  heaven,  even  in  a  dream, 
nor  earth, 

As    earth   was    once,   first    breathed 
among  the  stars, 

Articulate  glory  from  the  mouth  di- 
vine, 

179 


180 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


To  which  the  myriad  spheres  thrilled 
audibly, 

Touched   like  a  lute-string,  and  the 
sons  of  God 

Said  Amen,  singing  it.     I  know  that 
this 

Is  earth  not  new  created,  but  new 
cursed  — 

This,   Eden's  gate,   not  opened,  but 
built  up 

With  a  final  cloud  of  sunset.     Do  I 
dream  ? 

Alas,  not  so  !  this  is  the  Eden  lost 

By    Lucifer    the    serpent;    this    the 
sword 

(This  sword  alive   with    justice  and 
with  fire) 

That  smote  upon  the  forehead  Luci- 
fer 

The  angel.    Wherefore,  augel,  go,  de- 
part ! 

Enough  is  sinned  and  suffered. 
Luc.  By  no  means. 

Here's  a  brave  earth  to  sin  and  suffer 
on: 

It  holds  fast  still ;  it  cracks  not  under 
curse ; 

It  holds  like   mine  immortal.    Pres- 
ently 

We'll  sow  it  thick  enough  with  graves 
as  green, 

Or  greener  certes,   than   its    knowl- 
edge-tree. 

We'll  have  the  cypress  for  the  tree  of 
life. 

More    eminent  for  shadow:    for  the 
rest, 

We'll  build  it  dark  with  towns  and 
jiyramids, 

And  temples,  if  it  please  you:   we'll 
have  feasts 

And  funerals  also,  merrymakes  and 
wars, 

Till  blood  and  wine  shall  mix,  and 
run  along 

Right    o'er    the    edges.     And,    good 
Gabriel, 

(Ye  like  that  word  in  heaven),  /  too 
have  strength, — 

Strength  to  behold  Him,  and  not  wor- 
ship Him ; 

Strength  to  fall  from  Him,  and  not 
cry  on  Him; 

Strength  to  be  in  the  universe,  and 
yet 

Neither  God  nor  his    servant.    The 
red  sign 

Burnt  on    my  forehead,   wliich   you 
taunt  me  with, 


Is  God's  sign  that  it  bows  not  unto 

God,  — 
The  potter's  mark  ujion  his  work  to 

show 
It  rings  well  to  the  striker.    I  and 

the  earth 
Can  bear  more  curse. 

Gab.  O  miserable  earth, 

0  ruined  angel ! 

Luc.  Well,  and  if  it  be, 

1  CHOSE  this  ruin:  I  elected  it 

Of  my  will,  not  of  service.    What  I 
do, 

I  do  volitient,  not  obedient, 

And  overtop  thy  crown  with  my  de- 
spair. 

My  sorrow  crowns  me.    Get  thee  back 
to  heaven, 

And  leave  me  to  the  earth,  which  is 
mine  own 

In  virtue  of  her  ruin,  as  I  hers 

In  virtue  of  my  revolt !    turn  thou, 
from  both 

That  bright,  impassive,  passive  angel- 
hood, 

And  spare  to  read  us  backward  any 
more 

Of  the  spent  hallelujahs  ! 

Gab.  Spirit  of  scorn, 

I    might    say   of    unreason,   I  might 
say 

That  who  despairs,   acts;    that  who 
acts,  connives 

With  God's  relations  set  in  time  and 
space; 

That  who  elects,   assumes    a    some- 
thing good 

Which  God  made  possible;  that  who 
lives,  obeys 

The  law  of  a  Life-maker  .  .  . 
Luc.  Let  it  pass: 

No  more,  thou  Gabriel !    What  if  I 
stand  up 

And  strike  my  brow  against  the  crys- 
talline 

Roofing  the  creatui"es  —  shall  I  say, 
for  that. 

My    stature    is    too    high  for  me  to 
stand, 

Henceforward  I  must  sit  ?    Sit  thou  ! 
Gab.  I  kneel. 

Luc.  A  heavenly  answer.    Get  thee 
to  thy  heaven, 

And  leave  my  earth  to  me  ! 
Gab.         Through  heaven  and  earth 

God's  will  moves  freely,  and  I  follow 
it. 

As  color  follows  light.    He  overflows 

The  firmamental  walls  with  deity. 


i 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


181 


Therefore  with  love.     His  lightnings 

go  abroad; 
His  pity  may  do  so;  his  angels  must 
Whene'er  he  gives  them  charges. 

Luc.  Verily, 

I  and  my  demons,  who  are  spirits  of 

scorn. 
Might  hold   this  charge  of  standing 

with  a  sword 
'Twixt  man  and  his  inheritance,  as 

well 
As  the  benignest  angel  of  you  all. 
Gab.  Thou  speakest  in  the  shadow 

of  thy  change. 
If  thou  hadst  gazed  upon  the  face  of 

God 
This    morning  for    a    moment,   thou 

hadst  known 
That  only  pity  fitly  can  chastise. 
Hate  but  avenges. 

Luc.  As  it  is,  I  know 

Something  of  pity.    When  I  reeled  in 

heaven. 
And  my  sword  grew  too  heavy  for 

my  grasp. 
Stabbing    through    matter    which    it 

could  not  pierce 
So  m.xich  as  the  first  shell  of,  toward 

the  throne ; 
When  I  fell  back,  down,  staring  up 

as  I  fell. 
The    lightnings    holding    open     my 

scathed  lids, 
And   that  thouglit  of  the  infinite  of 

God 
Hurled  after  to  precipitate  descent; 
When  countless  angel  faces  still  and 

stern 
Pressed  out  upon  me  from  the  level 

heavens 
Adown  the  abysmal  sjiaces,  and  I  fell, 
Trampled    down    by    your    stillness, 

and  struck  blind 
By    the    sight    within    your    eyes,  — 

'twas  then  I  knew 
How  ye  could  pity,  my  kind  angel- 
hood ! 
Gab.  Alas,  discrowned  one,  by  the 

truth  in  me 
Which    God   keeps  in   me,   I   would 

give  away 
All  —  save  that  truth  and    his    love 

keeping  it,  — 
To  lead  thee  home  again  into  the  light, 
And   hear  thy  voice  chant  with  the 

morning  stars 
When  their  rays  tremble  round  them 

with  much  song 
Sung  in  more  gladness  ! 


Luc.  Sing,  my  morning  star  ! 

Last  beautiful,  last  heavenly,  that  I 

loved ! 
If  I  could  drench  thy  golden  locks 

with  tears, 
What  were  it  to  this  angel  ? 

Gab.  What  love  is. 

And  now  I  have  named  God. 

Luc.  Yet,  Gabriel, 

By  the  lie  in  me  which  I  keep  myself, 
Thou'rt   a    false    swearer.     Were    it 

otherwise, 
What    dost    thou    here,    vouchsafing 

tender  thoughts 
To  that  earth-angel  or  earth-demon 

(which, 
Thou  and  I  have  not  solved  the  prob- 
lem yet 
Enough  to  argue),  that  fallen  Adam 

there, 
That  red-clay  and  a  breath,  who  must, 

forsooth, 
Live  in  a  new  apocalypse  of  sense. 
With  beauty  and  music  waving  iu  his 

trees, 
And  running  in  his  rivers,  to   make 

glad 
His  soul  made  perfect  ?  —  is  it  not  for 

hope  — 
A  hope  within  thee  deeper  than  thy 

truth  — 
Of  finally  conducting  him  and  his 
To  fill  the  vacant  thrones  of  me  and 

mine. 
Which    affront    heaven    with    their 

vacuity  ? 
Gab.  Angel,   there   are   no   vacant 

thrones  in  heaven 
To  suit  thy  empty  words.    Glory  and 

life 
Fulfil  their  own  depletions  ;  and,  if 

God 
Sighed  you  far  from  him,  his  next 

breath  drew  in 
A  compensative  splendor  up  the  vast. 
Flushing  the  starry  arteries. 

Luc.  With  a  change  ! 

So  let  the  vacant  thrones  and  gardens 

too 
Fill  as  may  please  you  !  —  and  be  piti- 
ful. 
As  ye  translate  that  word,  to  the  de- 
throned 
And  exiled,  —  man  or  angel    The  fact 

stands. 
That  I,  the  rebel,  the  cast  out  and 

down. 
Am  here,  and  will  not  go;  while  there, 

along 


182 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


The  light  to  which  ye  flasli  the  desert 

out, 
Flies  your  adopted  Adam,  your  red- 
clay 
lu    two    kinds,    both    being    flawed. 

Why,  what  is  this  ? 
Whose  work  is  this  ?    Wliose  hand 

was  in  the  work  ? 
Against  whose  hand  ?    In  this   last 

strike,  methinks, 
I  am  not  a  fallen  angel ! 

Gah.  Dost  thou  know 

Aught  of  those  exiles  ? 

Luc.         Ay:  I  know  they  have  fled 
Silent  all  day  along  the  wilderness: 
I  know  they  wear,  for  burden  on  their 

backs, 
The  thought  of  a  shut  gate  of  Para- 
dise, 
And  faces  of  the  marshalled   cheru- 
bim 
Shining  against,  not  for,  them;  aud  I 

know 
They  dare  not  look  in  one  another's 

face, 
As  if  each  were  a  cherub  ! 

Gah.  Dost  thou  know 

Aught  of  their  future  ? 

Luc.  Only  as  much  as  this: 

That  evil  will  increase  and  multiply 
Without  a  benediction. 
Gab.  Nothing  more? 

Luc.  Why,    so    the    angels    taunt ! 

What  should  be  more  ? 
Gab.  God  is  more. 
Luc.  Proving  what  ? 

Gab.  That  he  is  God, 

And  capable  of  saving.     Lucifer, 
I  charge  thee,  by  the  solitude  he  kept 
Ere    he    created,   leave  the  earth  to 
God! 
Luc.  My  foot  is  on  the  earth,  firm  as 

my  sin. 
Gab.  i  charge  thee,  by  the  memory 
of  heaven 
Ere  any  sin  was  done,  leave  earth  to 
God  ! 
Luc.  My  sin  is  on  the  earth,  to  reign 

thereon. 
Gab.  I  charge  thee,   by  the  choral 
song  we  sang, 
AVhen,  up  against  the  white  shore  of 

our  feet. 
The  depths  of  the  creation  swelled  aud 

brake, 
And    the    new   worlds  —  the   beaded 

foam  and  flower 
Of  all  that  coil  —  roared  outward  into 
space 


On  thvmder-edges,  leave  the  earth  to 
God! 
Luc.  My  woe    is    on   the  earth,  to 

curse  thereby. 
Gah.  I  charge  thee,  by  that  mournful 
morning  star 

Which  trembles  .  .  . 
Luc.    Enough  spoken.     As  the  pine 

In  norland  forest  drops  its  weight  of 
snows 

By    a    night's    growth,    so,    growing 
toward  my  ends 

I  drop  thy  counsels.     Farewell,  Ga- 
briel ! 

Watch  out  thy  service:  I  achieve  niv 
will. 

And  perad venture  in  the  after-years. 

When    thoughtful    men    shall    bend 
their  spacious  brows 

Upon  the  storm  and  strife  seen  every- 
where 

To  ruffle  their  smooth  manhood,  and 
break  up 

With    lurid    lights    of    intermittent 
hope 

Their  human  fear  and  wrong,  they 
may  discern 

The  heart  of  a  lost  angel  in  the  earth. 

CHORUS   OF  EDEN   SPIRITS. 

{Chanting  from.  Paradise,  while  Adam  and 
EvBj?y  across  the  sword-glare.) 

Harkeu,  oh  barken  !   let  your  souls 
behind  you 
Turn,  gently  moved  ! 
Our  voices  feel  along  the  Dread  to 
find  you, 
O  lost,  beloved  ! 
Through  the  thick-shielded  and  strong- 
marshalled  angels 
They  press  and  pierce : 
Our  requiems  follow  fast  on  our  evan- 
gels: 
Voice  throbs  in  verse. 
We  are  but  orphaned  spirits  left  in 
Eden 
A  time  ago: 
God    gave    us  golden  cups,  and  we 
were  bidden 
To  feed  you  so. 
But  now  our  right  hand  hath  no  cup 
remaining, 
No  work  to  do ; 
The    mystic    hydromel   is   spilt,   and 
staining 
The  whole  earth  through,  — 
Most  ineradicable  stains,  for  showing 
(Not  interfused  !) 


A  DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


183 


That  brighter  colors  were  the  world's 
foregoing, 
Than  shall  be  nsed. 
Harken,  oh  harken  !  ye  shall  harken 
surely, 
For  years  and  years, 
The  noise  beside  you,  dripping  coldlj-, 
purely. 
Of  spirits'  tears. 
The  yearning  to  a  beautiful  denied 
you 
Shall  strain  your  powers ; 
Ideal    sweetnesses    shall    over-glide 
you. 
Resumed  from  ours. 
In  all  your  music  our  pathetic  minor 

Your  ears  shall  cross, 
And  all  good  gifts  shall  mind  you  of 
diviner. 
With  sense  of  loss. 
We  shall  be  near  you  in  your  poet- 
languors 
And  wild  extremes. 
What  time  ye  vex  the   desert  with 
vain  angers, 
Or  mock  with  dreams. 
And    when    upon    you,   weary    after 
roaming. 
Death's  seal  is  put. 
By  the  foregone  ye  shall  discern  the 
coming. 
Through  eyelids  shut. 
Spi7-its  of  tJie  trees. 
Hark  !  the  Eden  trees  are  stirring. 
Soft  and  solemn  in  your  hearing,  — 
Oak  and  linden,  palm  and  fir, 
Tamarisk  and  juniper. 
Each  still  throbbing  in  vibration 
Since  that  crowning  of  creation 
When  the  God-breath  spake  abroad, 
Let  lis  make  man  like  to  God ! 
And  the  pine  stood  quivering 
As  the  awful  word  went  by, 
Like  a  vibrant  music-string 
Stretched  from  mountain-peak  to  sky ; 
And  the  platan  did  expand 
Slow  and  gradual,  branch  and  head; 
And  the  cedar's  strong  black  shade 
Fluttered  brokenly  and  grand : 
Grove  and  wood  were  swept  aslant 
In  emotion  jubilant. 

Voice  of  the  same,  but  softer. 
Which  divine  impulsion  cleaves 
In  dim  movements  to  the  leaves 
Dropt  and  lifted,  dropt  and  lifted, 
In  the  sunlight  greenly  sifted,  — 
In  the  sunlight  and  the  moonlight 
Greenly  sifted  through  the  trees. 
Ever  wave  the  Eden  trees 


In  the  nightlight  and  the  moonlight. 
With  a  ruffting  of  green  branches 
Sliaded  off  to  resonances, 

Never  stirred  by  rain  or  breeze. 
Fare  ye  well,  farewell  ! 
Tlie  sylvan  sounds,  no  longer  audible; 
Expire  at  Eden's  door. 

Each  footstep  of  your  treading 
Treads  out  some  murmur  which  ye 
heard  before. 

Farewell !  the  trees  of  Eden 
Ye  shall  hear  nevermore. 

River-s}}irUs. 
Hark  the  flow  of  the  four  rivers, 

Hark  the  flow  ! 
How  the  silence  round  you  shivers, 

While  our  voices  through  it  go 
Cold  and  clear ! 
A  Softer  Voice. 
Think  a  little,  while  ye  hear. 

Of  the  banks 
Where  the  willows  and  the  deer 

Crowd  in  intermingled  ranks. 
As  if  all  would  drink  at  once 
Where  the  living  water  runs  !  — 

Of  the  fishes'  golden  edges 

Flashing  in  and  out  the  sedges; 
Of  the  swans,  on  silver  thrones, 

Floating      down      the     winding 
streams 
With  impassive    eyes  turned  sho 

ward. 
And  a  chant  of  undertones. 
And  the  lotus  leaning  forward 

To  help  them  into  dreams  ! 
Fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 
The  river-sounds,  no  longer  audible, 

Expire  at  Eden's  door. 

Each  footstep  of  your  treading 
Treads  out  some  murmur  which  ye 
heard  before. 

Farewell !  the  streams  of  Eden 

Ye  shall  hear  nevermore. 
Bird-spirit. 
I  am  the  nearest  nightingale 

That  singeth  in  Eden  after  you , 

And  I  am  singing  loud  and  true, 
And  sweet:  I  do  not  fail. 

I  sit  upon  a  cypress-bough. 
Close  to  the  gate,  and  I  fling  my  song 
Over  the  gate,  and  through  the  mail 
Of   the   warden    angels    marshalled 
strong,  — 

Over  the  gate,  and  after  you. 
And  the  warden-angels  let  it  pass. 
Because  the  poor  brown  bird,  alas  ! 

Sings  in  the  garden,  sweet  and  true. 
And  I  build  my  song  of  high,  pure 
notes, 


i 


184 


A    DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


Note  over  note,  height  over  height, 
Till  I  strike  the  arch  of  the  Infi- 
nite; 
And  I  bridge  abysmal  agonies 
With  strong,  clear  calms  of  harmo- 
nies; 
And    something    abides,    and    some- 
thing floats 
In  the  song  which  I  sing  after  you. 
Fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 
The  creature-sounds,  no  longer  audi- 
ble, 
Expire  at  Eden's  door. 
Each  footstep  of  your  treading 
Treads  out  some  cadence  which   ye 
heard  before. 
Farewell !  the  birds  of  Eden 
Ye  shall  hear  nevermore. 
Flower-spirits. 
We  linger,  we  linger. 

The  last  of  the  throng, 
Like  the  tones  of  a  singer 

Who  loves  his  own  song. 
We  are  spirit-aromas 

Of  blossom  and  bloom. 
We  call  your  thoughts  home,  as 

Ye  breathe  our  perfume, 
To  the  amaranth's  splendor 

Afire  on  the  slopes ; 
To  the  lily-bells  tender 
And  gray  heliotropes ; 
To  the  poppy-plains  keeping 

Such  dream-breath  and  blee, 
That  the  angels  there  stepping 

Grew  whiter  to  see ; 
To  the  nook  set  with  moly. 

Ye  jested  one  day  in, 
Till  your  smile  waxed  too  holy, 

And  left  your  lips  praying; 
To  the  rose  in  the  bower-place, 

That  dripped  o'er  you  sleeping 
To  the  asphodel  flower-place, 

Ye  walked  ankle-deep  in. 
We  pluck  at  your  raiment. 
We  stroke  down  your  hair. 
We  faint  in  our  lament. 

And  pine  into  air. 
Fare  ye  well,  farewell ! 
The  Eden  scents,  no  longer  sensible, 
Expire  at  Eden's  door. 
Each  footstep  of  your  treading 
Treads  out  some  fragrance  which  ye 
knew  before. 
Farewell !  the  flowers  of  Eden 
Ye  shall  smell  nevermore. 

[There  is  silence.  Adam 
and  Eve  fly  on,  and 
never  look  back.  Only 
a  colossal  shadow,  as  of 


the  dark  Angel  passing 
quickly,  is  cast  upon  the 
sword-glare. 

Scene.  —  The  extremity  of  the  sword-glare. 

Adam.  Pausing  a  moment  on    this 

outer  edge. 
Where  the  supernal  sword-glare  cuts 

in  light 
The  dark  exterior  desert,  hast  thou 

strength, 
Beloved,   to  look    behind    us  to  the 

gate  ? 
Eve.  Have  I  not  strength  to  look  up 

to  thy  face  ? 
Adam.  We    need    be    strong:    yon 

spectacle  of  cloud, 
Which  seals  the  gate  up  to  the  final 

doom. 
Is  God's  seal  manifest.    There  seem 

to  lie 
A  hundred  thunders  in  it,  dark  and 

dead, 
The  unmolten  lightnings  vein  it  mo- 
tionless; 
And,  outward  from  its  depth,  the  self- 
moved  sword 
Swings  slow  its  awful  gnomon  of  red 

fire 
From  side  to  side,  in  pendulous  hor- 
ror slow. 
Across    the   stagnant    ghastly    glare 

thrown  flat 
On  the  intermediate  ground  from  that 

to  this. 
The    angelic    hosts,   the    archangelic 

pomps, 
Thrones,    dominations,    princedoms, 

rank  on  rank, 
Rising  sublimely  to  the  feet  of  God, 
On  either  side,  and  overhead  the  gate. 
Show  like  a  glittering  and  sustained 

smoke 
Drawn  to  an  apex.    That  their  faces 

shine 
Betwixt  the  solemn  clasping  of  their 

wings 
Clasped  high  to  a  silver  point  above 

their  heads, 
We  only  guess  from  hence,  and   not 

discern. 
Eve.  Though  we  were  near  enough 

to  see  them  shine. 
The  shadow  on  thy  face  were  aw- 

fuUer 
To  me,  at  least,  —  to  me,  —  than  all 

their  light. 
Adam.  What  is  this.   Eve?    Thou 

droppest  heavily 


h»HI-»H 


A    DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


185 


In  a  heap  earthward,  and  thy  body 

heaves 
Under  the  golden  floodings  of  thine 

hair. 
Eve.  O  Adam,  Adam  !  by  that  name 

of  Eve,— 
Thine  Eve,  tliy  life,  —  which  suits  me 

little  now, 
Seeing  that  I  now  confess  myself  thy 

death 
And  thine  undoer,  as  the  snake  was 

mine,  — 
I   do    adjure    thee    put    me    straight 

away, 
Together    with    my    name !      Sweet, 

punish  me  ! 
O  love,  be  just !  and  ere  we  pass  be- 
yond 
The  light  cast  outward  by  the  fiery 

sword. 
Into  the  dark  which  earth  must  be  to 

us. 
Bruise  my  head  with  thy  foot,  as  the 

curse  said 
My  seed  shall  the  first  tempter's  !  — 

strike  with  curse. 
As  God  struck  in  the  garden  !  and  as 

HE, 

Being  satisfied  with  justice  and  with 

wrath, 
Did  roll  his  thunder  gentler  at  the 

close. 
Thou,  peradventure,    mayst    at    last 

recoil 
To  some  soft  need  of  mercy.     Strike, 

my  lord ! 
I,  also,  after  tempting,  writhe  on  the 

ground, 
And  I  would  feed  on  ashes  from  thine 

hand, 
As  suits  me,  O  my  tempted  ! 

Adam.  My  beloved. 

Mine  Eve  and  life,  I  have  no  other 

name 
For  thee,  or  for  the  sun,  tlian  what  ye 

are,  — 
My  utter  life  and  light !     If  we  have 

fallen. 
It  is  that  we  have  sinned,  — we.    God 

is  just; 
And,  since  his  curse  doth  comprehend 

us  both, 
It  must  be  that  his  balance  holds  the 

weights 
Of    first   and   last   sin    on    a    level. 

What ! 
Shall  I,  who  had  not  virtue  to  stand 

straight 
Among  the  hills  of  Eden,  here  assume 


To  mend  the  justice  of  the  perfect 
God, 

By  piling  up  a  curse  upon  his  curse. 

Against  thee,  — thee  ? 
Eve.         For  so,  perchance,  thy  God 

Might  take  thee  into  grace  for  scorn- 
ing me. 

Thy  wrath  against  the  sinner  giving 
proof 

Of  inward  abrogation  of  the  sin: 

And  so  the  blessed  angels  might  come 
down 

And  walk  with  thee  as  erst,  —  I  think 
they  would,  — 

Because  I  was  not  near  to  make  them 
sad. 

Or   soil  the   rustling    of    their   inno- 
cence. 
Adam,  They  know  me.     I  am  deep- 
est in  the  guilt, 

If  last  in  the  transgression. 
Eve.  Thou ! 

Adam,.  If  God, 

Who  gave  the  right  and  joyaunce  of 
the  world 

Both  xinto  thee  and  me,  gave  thee  to 
me, — 

The  best  gift  last, — the  last  sin  was 
the  worst. 

Which  sinned  against  more  comple- . 
ment  of  gifts 

And  grace  of  giving.    God  !  I  render 
back 

Strong    benediction    and     perpetual 
praise 

From  mortal  feeble  lips  (as  incense- 
smoke 

Out  of  a  little  censer  may  fill  heaven), 

That  thou,  in  striking  my  benumbed 
hands, 

And  forcing  them  to  drop  all  other 
boons 

Of  beauty  and  dominion  and  delight. 

Hast  left  this  well-beloved  Eve,  this 
life 

Within  life,   this  best    gift    between 
their  palms, 

In  gracious  compensation. 
Eve.  Is  it  thy  voice, 

Or  some  saluting  angel's,  calling  home 

My  feet  into  the  garden  ? 
Adam,.  O  my  God  ! 

I,  standing  here  between  the  glory 
and  dark,  — 

The  glory  of  thy  wrath  projected  forth 

From  Eden's  wall,  the  dark  of  our 
distress. 

Which  settles  a  step  off  in  that  drear 
world,  — 


186 


A    DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


Lift  up  to  thee  the  hands  from  whence 

hath  fallen 
Only  creation's  sceptre,  thanking  thee 
That  rather  thou  hast  cast  me  out 

with  hfr 
Than  left  me  lorn  of  her  in  Paradise, 
With  angel  looks  and    angel    songs 

around 
To  show  the  absence  of  her  eyes  and 

voice. 
And  make  society  full  desertness 
Without  her  use  in  comfort. 

Eve.  Where  is  loss  ? 

Am  I  in  Eden  ?    Can  another  speak 
Mine  own  love's  tongue  ? 

Adam.      Because,  with  her,  I  stand 
Upright,  as  far  as  can  be  in  this  fall, 
And  look  away  from  heaven  which 

doth  accuse. 
And    look    away  from    earth  which 

doth  convict, 
Into    her  face,   and    crown    my  dis- 
crowned brow 
Out  of  her  love,  and  put  the  thought 

of  her 
Around  me  for  an  Eden  full  of  birds, 
And  lift  her  body  up  —  thus  —  to  my 

heart. 
And  with  my  lips  upon  her  lips  — 

thus,  thus  — 
Do  quicken  and  sublimate  my  mortal 

breath. 
Which    cannot     climb    against    the 

grave's  steep  sides, 
But  overtops  this  grief. 

Eve.  1  am  renewed. 

My  eyes  grow  with  the  light  which  is 

in  thine; 
The  silence  of    my  heart  is  full   of 

sound. 
Hold  me  up  —  so  !     Because  I  com- 
prehend 
This  human  love,  I  shall  not  be  afraid 
Of  any  human  death;   and  yet,  because 
I  know  this  strength  of  love,  I  seem 

to  know 
Death's  strength  by  that  same  sign. 

Kiss  on  my  lips. 
To  shut  the  door  close  on  my  rising 

soul. 
Lest  it  pass  outwards  in  astonishment, 
And  leave  thee  lonely  ! 

Adam.  Yet  thou  liest,  Eve, 

Bent  heavily  on  thyself  across  mine 

arm. 
Thy  face  flat  to  the  sky. 

Eve.  Ay;  and  the  tears 

Running,  as  it  might  seem,  my  life 

from  me. 


They  run  so  fast  and  warm.    Let  me 

lie  so. 
And  weep  so,   as  if  in  a  dream  or 

prayer, 
Unfastening,  clasp  by  clasp,  the  hard 

tight  thought 
Which  clipped  my  heart,  and  showed 

me  evermore 
Loathed  of  thy  justice  as  I  loathe  the 

snake. 
And  as  the  pure  ones  loathe  our  sin. 

To-day, 
All  day,  beloved,  as  we  fled  across 
This     desolating    radiance    cast    by 

swords. 
Not  suns,  my  lips  prayed  soundless 

to  myself, 
Striking    against     each     other,     ' '  O 

Lord  God  !  " 
('Twas  so  I  prayed)  "  I  ask  thee  by 

my  sin. 
And  by  thy  curse,  and  by  thy  blame- 
less heavens, 
Make  dreadful  haste  to  hide  me  from 

thy  face 
And  from    the  face   of    my  beloved 

here 
For  whom  I  am  no  helpmeet,  quick 

away 
Into  the  new  dark  mystery  of  death  ! 
I  will  lie  still  there;  I  will  make  no 

plaint; 
I  will  not  sigh,  nor  sob,  nor  speak  a 

word, 
Nor  struggle  to  come   back  beneath 

the  sun, 
Where,    peradventure,    I    might   sin 

anew 
Against  thy  mercy  and  his  pleasure. 

Death, 
Oh,   death,   whate'er  it    be,   is  good 

enough 
For  such  as  I  am;  while  for  Adam 

here. 
No  voice  shall  say  again,  in  heaven  or 

earth, 
It  is  not  good  for  him  to  he  alone." 
Adam.  And  was  it  good  for  such  a 

prayer  to  pass. 
My  unkind  Eve,  betwixt  our  mutual 

lives  ? 
If  I  am  exiled,  must  I  be  bereaved  ? 
Eve.  'Twas  an  ill   prayer:   it  shall 

be  prayed  no  more. 
And  God  did  use  it  like  a  foolishness. 
Giving  no    answer.    Now  my  heart 

has  grown 
Too  high  and  strong  for  such  a  foolish 

prayer: 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


Love  makes  it  strong.    And  since  I 
was  the  first 

In  the  transgression,  with   a  steady 
foot 

I  will  be  first  to  tread  from  this  sword- 
glare 

Into  the  outer  darkness  of  the  waste,  — 

And  thus  I  do  it. 
Adam.  Thus  I  follow  thee, 

As     erewhile     in     the     sin.  —  What 
sounds  !  what  sounds  ! 

I  feel  a  music  which  comes  straight 
from  heaven, 

As  tender  as  a  watering  dew. 
Eve.  I  think 

That  angels,  not  those  guarding  Par- 
adise, 

But  the  love  angels,  who  came  erst  to 
us. 

And,  when  we  said  "  God,"  fainted 
unawares 

Back  from  our  mortal  presence  unto 
God, 

(As   if    he    drew  them    inward  in  a 
breath,) 

His  name  being  heard  of  them, — I 
think  that  they 

With  sliding  voices  lean  from  heaven- 
ly towers. 

Invisible,  but  gracious.     Hark  —  how 
soft! 

CHORUS   OF  INVISIBLE  ANGELS. 
Faint  and  teyider. 

Mortal  man  and  woman. 

Go  upon  your  travel ! 
Heaven  assist  the  human 

Smoothly  to  unravel 
All  that  web  of  pain 

Wherein  ye  are  holden. 
Do  ye  know  our  voices 

Chanting  down  the  Golden  ? 
Do  ye  guess  our  choice  is. 

Being  unbeholden. 
To  be  barkened  by  you  yet  again  ? 

This  pure  door  of  opal 

God  hath  shut  between  us,  — 
Us  his  shining  people. 

You  who  once  have  seen  us 
And  are  blinded  new; 

Yet,  across  the  doorway. 
Past  the  silence  reaching. 

Farewells  evermore  may, 
Blessing  in  the  teaching. 

Glide  from  us  to  you. 
First  semichorus. 
Think  how  erst  your  Eden, 


Day  on  day  succeeding. 
With  our  presence  glowed. 
We  came  as  if  the  heavens  were  bowed 

To  a  milder  music  rare. 
Ye  saw  us  in  our  solemn  treading. 

Treading    down    the    steps    of 
cloud. 
While  our  wings,  oiitspreading 
Double  calms  of  whiteness. 
Dropped  superfluous  brightness 
Down  from  stair  to  stair. 
Second  semichorus. 
Or  oft,  abrupt  though  tender. 

While  ye  gazed  on  space, 
We  flashed  our  angel-splendor 
In  either  human  face. 
With  mystic  lilies  in  our  hands, 
From  the  atmospheric  bands. 

Breaking  with  a  sudden  grace, 
We  took  you  unaware  ! 

While  our  feet  struck  glories 
Outward,  smooth  and  fair, 

Which  we  stood  on  floorwise, 
Platformed  in  mid-air. 

First  semichonts. 
Or  oft,  when  heaven  descended. 

Stood    we    in    our    wondering 
sight 
In  a  mute  apocalypse 
With  dumb  vibrations  on  our  lips 
From  hosannas  ended. 

And  grand  half-vanishings 
Of  the  empyreal  things 

Within  our  eyes  belated. 
Till  the  heavenly  Infinite, 

Falling  off  from  the  Created, 
Left  our  inward  contemplation 
Opened  into  ministration. 
Chorus. 

Then  upon  our  axle  turning 
Of  great  joy  to  sympathy, 
We  sang  out  the  morning 
Broadening  up  the  sky; 
Or  we  drew 
Our  music  through 
The  noontide's    hush  and   heat    and 

shine. 
Informed  with  our  intense  Divine  ! 
Interrupted  vital  notes 
Palpitating  hither,  thither, 
Burning  out  into  the  ether. 
Sensible  like  fiery  motes; 
Or,  whenever  twilight  drifted 
Through  the  cedar  masses, 
The  globed  sun  we  lifted, 
Trailing  purple,  trailing  gold. 

Out  between  the  passes 
Of  the  mountains  manifold, 
To  anthems  slowly  sung  ! 


188 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


While  he,  aweary,  half  in  swoon 
For  joy  to  hear  our  climbing  tune 

Transpierce  the  stars'  concentric 
rings,— 
The  burden  of  his  glory  flung 

In  broken  lights  upon  our  wings. 

[  The  chant  dies  away  con- 
fusedly, and  Lucifer 
appears. 

Luc.  Now  may  all  fruits  be  pleasant 
to  thy  lips. 

Beautiful  Eve  !   The  times  have  some- 
what changed 

Since  thou  and  I  had  talk  beneath  a 
tree, 

Albeit  ye  are  not  gods  yet. 
Eve.  Adam,  hold 

My  right  hand  strongly  !     It  is  Luci- 
fer, — 

And  we  have  love  to  lose. 
Adam.  I'  the  name  of  God, 

Go  apart  from  us,  O  thou  Lucifer  ! 

And  leave  us  to  the  desert  thou  hast 
made 

Out  of  thy  treason.   Bring  no  serpent- 
slime 

Athwart  this  path  kept  holy  to  our 
tears. 

Or  we  may  curse  thee  with  their  bit- 
terness. 
Luc.  Curse  freely  !    Curses  thicken. 
Why,  this  Eve 

Who  thought  me  once  part  worthy  of 
her  ear. 

And  somewhat  wiser  than  the  other 
beasts,  — 

Drawing  together  her  large  globes  of 
eyes, 

The  light  of  which  is  throbbing  in  and 
out 

Their  steadfast  continuity  of  gaze, — 

Knots  her  fair  eyebrows  in  so  hard  a 
knot. 

And  down  from  her  white  heights  of 
womanhood 

Looks    on    me   so  amazed,  I  scarce 
should  fear 

To    wager    such    au    apple    as    she 
plucked. 

Against  one  riper  from  the  tree  of  life. 

That  she  could  curse  too  —  as  a  wo- 
man may  — 

Smooth  in  the  vowels. 
Eve.  So  —  speak  wickedly: 

I  like  it  best  so.    Let  thy  words  be 
wounds, 

For  so  I  shall  not  fear  thy  power  to 
hurt; 


Trench  on  the  forms  of  good  by  open 
ill, 

For  so  I  shall  wax  strong  and  grand 
with  scorn, 

Scorning    myself    for    ever    trusting 
thee 

As  far  as  thinking,  ere  a  snake  ate 
dust. 

He  could  speak  wisdom. 
Luc.  Our  new  gods,  it  seems, 

Deal  more  in  thunders  than  in  cour- 
tesies. 

And,    sooth,    mine     own     Olympus, 
which  anon 

I  shall  build  up  to  loud-voiced  ima- 
gery 

From  all  the  wandering  visions  of  the 
world, 

May  show  worse  railing  than  our  lady 
Eve 

Pours  o'er  the  rounding  of  her  argent 
arm. 

But  why  should  this  be  ?    Adam  par- 
doned Eve. 
Adam.  Adam  loved. Eve.     Jehovah 

pardon  both  ! 
Eve.  Adam    forgave  Eve,    because 

loving  Eve. 
Luc.  So,  well.    Yet  Adam  was  un- 
done of  Eve, 

As  both  were   by  the  snake:   there- 
fore forgive. 

In    like  wise,  fellow-temptress,    the 
poor  snake, 

Who  stung  there,  not  so  poorly  ! 

[Aside. 
Eve.  Hold  thy  wrath. 

Beloved  Adam  !  Let  me  answer  him; 

For  this  time  he  speaks  truth,  which 
we  should  hear. 

And  asks  for  mercy,  which  I  most 
should  grant, 

In  like  wise,  as  he  tells  us,  in  like 
wise  !  — 

And  therefore   I  thee  pardon,  Luci- 
fer, 

As  freely  as   the    streams    of    Eden 
flowed 

When  we  were  happy  by  them.     So, 
dei^art; 

Leave  us  to  walk  the  remnant  of  our 
time 

Out  mildly  in  the  desert.   Do  not  seek 

To  harm  us  any  more,  or  scoff  at  us. 

Or,  ere  the  dust  be  laid  upon  our  face, 

To  find  there  the  communion  of  the 
dust 

And  issue  of  the  dust.    Go  1 
Adam.  At  once  go  I 


h»HI-»H 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


189 


Ye  images 
mould, 
By 


Luc.  Forgive  !  and  go  ! 
of  clay, 
SliruTik    somewhat    in    the 

what  jest  is  this  ? 
What  words  are  these   to  use  ? 

what  a  thought 
Conceive  ye  of   me  ?    Yesterday  —  a 

snake ! 
To-day— what? 
Adam.  A  strong  spirit. 

Eve.  A  sad  spirit. 

Adam..  Perhaps    a    fallen    angel.— 

Who  shall  say  ! 
Luc.  Who  told  thee,  Adam  ? 
Adam.  Thou  !  — the  prodigy 

Of  thy  vast  brows  and  melancholy 

eyes, 
Which    comprehend    the    heights    of 

some  great  fall. 
I  think  that  thou  hast  one  day  worn  a 

crown 
Under  the  eyes  of  God. 
Luc.  And  why  of  God  ? 

Adam,.  It    were    no     crown     else. 
Verily,  I  think 
Thou'rt  fallen  far.     I  had  not  yester- 
day 
Said  it  so  surely ;  but  I  know  to-day 
Grief  by  grief,  sin  by  sin. 
Luc.  A  crown  by  a  crown. 

Adam.  Ay,  mock  me  !  now  I  know 
more  than  I  knew: 
Now  I  know  that  thou  art  fallen  be- 
low hope 
Of  final  re-ascent. 
Luc.  Because  ? 

Adam,.  Because 

A  spirit  who  expected  to  see  God, 
Though  at  the  last  point  of  a  million 

years. 
Could  dare  no  mockery  of  a  ruined 

man 
Such  as  this  Adam. 

Luc.  Who  is  high  and  bold, — 

Be  it  said  passing,  —  of  a  good  red 

clay 
Discovered  on  some  top  of  Lebanon, 
Or  haply  of  Aornus,  beyond  sweep 
Of    the  black  eagle's  wing.    A  fur- 
long lower 
Had  made  a  meeker  king  for  Eden. 

Soh! 
Is  it  not  possible  by  sin  and  grief 
(To  give  the  things  your  names)  that 

spirits  should  rise, 
Instead  of  falling  ? 

Adam.  Most  impossible. 

The  Highest  being  the  Holy  and  the 
Glad, 


Whoever  rises  must  approach  delight 
And  sanctity  in  the  act. 

Luc.  Ha,  my  clay  king  \ 

Thou  wilt  not  rule  by  wisdom  very 

long 
The    after-generations.     Earjbh,     me- 

thinks. 
Will  disinherit  thy  philosoiAy 
For  a  new  doctrine  suited  to  thine 

heirs. 
And  class  these  present  dogmas  with 

the  rest 
Of  the  old-world  traditions,  —  Eden 

fruits 
And  Saurian  fossils. 

Eve.  Speak  no  more  with  him. 

Beloved  !  it  is  not  good  to  speak  with 

him.  — 
Go  from  us,  Lucifer,  and  speak  no 

more  ! 
We  have  no  pardon  which  thou  dost 

not  scorn, 
Nor  any  bliss,  thou  seest,  for  coveting. 
Nor    innocence  for  staining.     Being 

bereft. 
We  would  be  alone.    Go  ! 

Luc.  Ah  !  ye  talk  the  same. 

All  of  you,  —  spirits  and  clay,  —  Go, 

and  depart ! 
In  heaven  they  said  so,  and  at  Eden's 

gate. 
And  here  re-iterant  in  the  wilderness. 
None  saith.  Stay  with  me,  for  thy  face 

is  fair  ! 
None  saith.    Stay  with  me,  for  thy 

voice  is  sweet  ! 
And  yet  I  was  not  fashioned  out  of 

clay. 
Look  on  me,  woman  !    Am  I  beauti- 
ful ? 
Eve.  Thou  hast  a  glorious  darkness. 
Luc.  Nothing  more  ? 

Eve.  I  think  no  more. 
Luc.  False    heart,    thou     thinkest 

more  ! 
Thou  canst  not  choose  but  think,  as  I 

praise  God, 
Unwillingly  but  fully,  that  I  stand 
Most  absolute  in  beauty.     As  your- 
selves 
Were  fashioned  very  good  at  best,  so 

we 
Sprang  very  beauteous  from  the  cre- 

ant  Word 
Which  thrilled  behind  us,  God   liim- 

self  being  moved 
When  that  august  work  of  a  perfect 

shape, 
His  dignities  of  sovran  angelhood, 


T 


190 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


Swept  out  into  the  universe,  divine 
With  thunderous  movements,  earnest 

looks  of  gods, 
And  silver-solemn  clash  of    cymbal 

wings. 
Whereof    was   I,   in   motion   and    in 

form, 
A  part  not  poorest.    And  yet  —  yet, 

perhaps. 
This  beauty  which  I  speak  of  is  not 

here, 
As  God's  voice  is  not  here,  nor  even 

my  crown,  — 
I  do  not  know.    What  is  this  thought 

or  thing 
Which  I  call  beauty  ?    Is  it  thought 

or  thing  ? 
Is  it  a  thought  accepted  for  a  thing  ? 
Or  both  ?  or  neither  ?  —  a  pretext,  a 

word  ? 
Its  meaning  flutters  in  me  like  a  flame 
Under  my  own  breath:  my  percep- 
tions reel 
Forevermore  around  it,  and  fall  off, 
As  if  it,  too,  were  holy. 
Eve.  Which  it  is. 

Adam.  The  essence  of    all    beauty 

I  call  love. 
The  attribute,  the  evidence  and  end. 
The    consummation    to    the    inward 

sense, 
Of  beauty  apprehended  from  without, 
I    still    call     love.     As    form    when 

colorless 
Is  nothing  to  the  eye,  —  that  pine-tree 

there, 
Without  its  black  and  green,  being 

all  a  blank,— 
So,   without    love,   is    beauty  imdis- 

cerned 
In  man  or  angel.     Angel !  rather  ask 
What    love    is    in    thee,    what    love 

moves  to  thee. 
And  what  collateral  love  moves  on 

with  thee; 
Then  shalt  thow   know   if   thou  art 

beautiful. 
Luc.  Love  !  what  is  love  ?  I  lose  it. 

Beauty  and  love 
I  darken    to    the    image.     Beauty  — 

love  ! 

[He  fades    aioay,  tchile    a 
low  music  sounds. 

Adam.  Thou  art  pale.  Eve. 

Eve.  The  precipice  of  ill 

Down  this  colossal  nature  dizzies  me : 
And  hark !  the  starry  harmony  re- 
mote 


Seems  measuring    the   heights  from 

whence  he  fell. 
Adam.  Think  that  we  have  not  fall- 
en so  !    By  the  hope 
And  aspiration,  by  the  love  and  faith. 
We  do  exceed   the    stature    of   this 

angel. 
Eve.  Happier  we  are  than  he  is  by 

the  death. 
Adam..  Or,  rather,  by  the  life  of  the 

Lord  God. 
How  dim  the  angel  grows,  as  if  that 

blast 
Of  music  swept  him  back  into  the 

dark ! 

[  The  music  is  stronger,  gath- 
ering itself  into  uncer- 
tain articulatio7i. 

Eve.  It  throbs  in  on  us  like  a  plain- 
tive heart, 

Pressing  with  slow  pulsations,  vibra- 
tive. 

Its  gradual   sweetness   through   the 
yielding  air. 

To  such  exi:)ression  as  the  stars  may 
use. 

Most  starry-sweet  and  strange.    With 
every  note 

That    grows    more    loud    the    angel 
grows  more  dim. 

Receding  in  proportion  to  approach, 

Until  he  stand  afar,  —  a  shade. 
Adam.  Now,  words. 

SONG  OP  THE  MORKING    STAR    TO 
LUCIFER. 

lie  fades  utterly  away,  and  vanishes  as  it 
proceeds. 

Mine  orbed  image  sinks 

Back  from  thee,  back  from  thee, 
As  thou  art  fallen,  methinks. 

Back  from  me,  back  from  me. 
O  my  light-bearer. 
Could  another  fairer 
Lack  to  thee,  lack  to  thee  ? 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 
I  loved  thee  with  the  fiery  love  of 

stars 
Who  love  by  burning,  and  by  loving 

move 
Too  near  the  throned  Jehovah  not  to 
love. 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 
Their  brows  flash  fast  on  me  from 
gliding  cars, 
Pale-passioned  for  my  loss. 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros ! 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


191 


Mine  orbed  heats  drop  cold 
Down    from   thee,  down    from 
thee, 

As  fell  thy  grace  of  old 
Down  from  me,  down  from  me. 

0  my  light-bearer, 
Is  another  fairer 

Won  to  thee,  won  to  thee  ? 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros, 
Great  love  preceded  loss. 
Known  to  thee,  known  to  thee. 
Ah,  ah  ! 
Thou,   breathing    thy  communicable 
grace 
Of  life  into  my  light. 
Mine  astral  faces,  from  thine  angel 
face 
Hast  inly  fed. 
And  flooded  me  with  radiance  over- 
much 
From  thy  pure  height. 
Ah,  ah  ! 
Thou,  with  calm,  floating  pinions  both 
ways  spread , 
Erect,  irradiated. 
Didst  sting  my  wheel  of  glory 
On,  on  before  thee. 
Along  the  Godlight,  by  a  quickening 
touch  ! 

Ha,  ha  ! 
Around,    around,    the     firmamental 

ocean 
I  swam  expanding  with  delirious  fire! 
Around,  around,  around,  in  blind  de- 
sire 
To  be  drawn  upward  to  the  Infinite  — 
Ha,  ha ! 

Until,   the    motion    flinging    out    the 
motion 
To  a  keen  whirl    of    passion    and 
avidity. 
To  a  dim  whirl  of  languor  and  delight, 
I  wound  in  gyrant  orbits  smooth  and 
white 
With  that  intense  rapidity. 
Around,  around, 

1  wound  and  interwound. 
While  all  the  cyclic  heavens  about  me 

spun. 

Stars,  planets,   suns,   and  moons  di- 
lated broad. 

Then  flashed  together  into  a  single 
sun. 

And  wound,  and  wound  in  one: 

And  as  they  wound  I  wound,  around, 
around, 

In  a  great  fire  I  almost  took  for  God. 
Ha,  ha,  Heosphoros  ! 


Tliine  angel  glory  sinks 
Down    from    me,    down    from 
me: 
My  l>eauty  falls,  methinks, 
Down    from   thee,   down    from 
thee. 
O  my  light-bearer, 
O  my  iiath-preparer. 
Gone  from  me,  gone  from  me  ! 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  ! 
I  cannot  kindle  underneath  the  brow 
Of  this  new  angel  here  who  is  not 

thou. 
All  things  are  altered  since  that  time 

ago; 
And  if  I  shine  at  eve,   I  shall   not 
know. 
I  am  strange,  I  am  slow. 
Ah,  ah,  Heosphoros  I 
Henceforward,  human  eyes  of  lovers 

be 
The  only  sweetest  sight  that  I  shall 

see. 
With  tears  between  the  looks  raised 
up  to  me. 
Ah,  ah ! 
When,  having  wept  all  night,  at  break 

of  day 
Above  the  folded  hills,  they  shall  sur- 
vey 
My  light,  a  little  trembling,  in   the 
gray, 

Ah,  ah  ! 
And,  gazing  on  me,  such  shall  com- 
prehend, 
Through    all  my  jjiteous  pomp  at 

morn  or  even 
And    melancholy    leaning    out    of 
heaven. 
That    love,   their    own    divine,    may 
change  or  end, 
That  love  may  close  in  loss  ! 
Ah,  ah,  Heosjihoros  ! 

Scene.  —  Farther  on.    A  wild  open  country 
seen  vaguely  in  the  approaching  night. 

Adam.  How  doth  the  wide  and  mel- 
ancholy earth 
Gather  her  hills  around  us,  gray  and 

ghast. 
And  stare  with  blank  significance  of 

loss 
Right  in  our  faces  !     Is  the  wind  up  ? 
Eve.  Nay. 

Adam.  And  yet  the  cedars  and  the 
junipers 
Rock  slowly,  through  the  mist,  with- 
out a  sound, 


i 


192 


A   DRAMA   OF  EXILE. 


And  shapes  which  have  no  certainty 
of  shape 

Drift  duskly  in  and  out  between  the 
pines, 

And  loom  along  the  edges  of  the  hills, 

And    lie   flat,   curdling    in    the   open 
ground, — 

Shadows  without  a  body,  which  con- 
tract 

And  lengthen  as  we  gaze  on  them. 
Eve.  O  life, 

Which    is    not    man's    nor  angel's ! 
What  is  this  ? 
Adam.  No  cause  for  fear.     The  cir- 
cle of  God's  life 

Contains  all  life  beside. 
Eve.  I  think  the  earth 

Is  crazed  with    curse,   and  wanders 
from  the  sense 

Of  those  first  laws  affixed  to  form  and 
space 

Or  ever  she  knew  sin. 


Adam. 


We  will  not  fear: 


We  were  brave  sinning. 

Eve.  Yea,  I  plucked  the  fruit 

With  eyes  upturned  to  heaven,  and 

seeing  there 
Our  god-thrones,  as  the  tempter  said, 

not  God. 
My  heart,   which    beat    then,   sinks. 

The  sun  hath  sunk 
Out  of  sight  with  our  Eden. 
Adam.  Night  is  near. 

Eve.  And  God's  curse  nearest.    Let 

us  travel  back. 
And  stand  within  the  sword-glare  till 

we  die. 
Believing  it  is  better  to  meet  death 
Than  suffer  desolation. 

Adam.  Nay,  beloved ! 

We  must  not  pluck  death  from   the 

Maker's  hand, 
As  erst    we    plucked  the  apple:   we 

must  wait 
Until  he  gives  death,  as  he  gave  us  life. 
Nor  murmur  faintly  o'er  the   primal 

gift 
Because  we  spoilt  its  sweetness  with 

our  sin. 
Eve.  Ah,    ah !    dost    thou    discern 

what  I  behold  ? 
Adam.  I  see  all.    How  the  spirits 

in  thine  eyes 
From   their  dilated  orbits  bound  be- 
fore 
To  meet  the  spectral  Dread  ! 

Eve.  I  am  afraid  — 

Ah,   ah !    the    twilight    bristles   wild 

with  shapes 


Of  intermittent  motion,  aspect  vague. 
And  mystic  bearings,  which  o'ercreep 

the  earth, 
Keeping  slow  time  with  horrors  in 

the  blood. 
How  near  they  reach  .  .  .  and   far  ! 

How  gray  they  move, 
Treading  upon  the  darkness  without 

feet. 
And  fluttering  on  the  darkness  with- 
out wings ! 
Some  run  like  dogs,  with  noses  to  the 

ground; 
Some  keep  one  path,  like  sheep;  some 

rock,  like  trees; 
Some   glide,  like  a  fallen   leaf;   anti 

some  flow  on, 
Copious  as  rivers. 

Adam.  Some  spring  up  like  fire; 

And  some  coil  .  .  . 

Eve,  Ah,  ah  !  dost  thou  pause  to  say 
Like  what?  —  coil  like  the  serpent, 

when  he  fell 
From  all  the  emerald  splendor  of  his 

height 
And  writhed,   and  could  not  climb 

against  the  curse,  — 
Not  a  ring's  length.    I  am  afraid  — 

afraid  — 
I  think  it  is  God's  will  to  make  me 

afraid. 
Permitting  these  to  haunt  us  in  the 

place 
Of  his  beloved  angels,  gone  from  us 
Because  we  are  not  pure.    Dear  pity 

of  God, 
That  didst  permit  the   angels   to  go 

home, 
And  live  no  more  with  us  who  are  not 

pure, 
Save  us,  too,  from  a  loathly  company, 
Almost  as  loathly  in  our  eyes,  per- 
haps, 
As  loe  are  in  the  purest !     Pity  us,  — 
Us    too !    nor   shut  us  in  the  dark, 

away 
From  verity  and  from  stability, 
Or  what  we  name  such  through  the 

precedence 
Of    earth's  adjusted  uses !    leave  us 

not 
To  doubt,  betwixt  our  senses  and  our 

souls, 
Which  are  the  more  distraught,  and 

full  of  pain, 
And  weak  of  apprehension  ! 

Adam.  Courage,  sweet ! 

The  mystic  shapes  ebb  back  from  us, 

and  drop 


A  DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


193 


" 


1 


"With  slow  concentric  movement,  eacli 

on  each, 
Expressing    wider    spaces,    and    col- 
lapsed 
In  lines  more  definite  for  imagery 
And     clearer    for    relation,    till    the 

throng 
Of  shapeless  spectra  merge  into  a  few 
Distinguishable  phantasms  vague  and 

grand. 
Which    sweep    out    and    around    us 

vastily. 
And  hold  us  in  a  circle  and  a  calm. 
Eve.  Strange    phantasms    of     pale 

shadow  !  there  are  twelve. 
Thou  who  didst  name  all  lives,  hast 

names  for  these  ? 
Adam.  Methinks  this  is  the  zodiac 

of  the  earth. 
Which    rounds  us  with   a  visionary 

dread. 
Responding    with    twelve    shadowy 

signs  of  earth. 
In    fantasque    apposition     and     ap- 
proach. 
To  those  celestial,  constellated  twelve 
Which    palpitate    adown    the    silent 

nights 
Under  the  pressure  of  the  hand  of  God 
Stretched  wide  in  benediction.      At 

this  hour 
Not  a  star  pricketh  the  flat  gloom  of 

heaven ; 
But,  girdling  close  our  nether  wilder- 
ness. 
The  zodiac-figures  of  the  earth  loom 

slow. 
Drawn  out,  as  suiteth  with  the  place 

and  time, 
In  twelve  colossal  shades,  instead  of 

stars. 
Through  whic'u    the  ecliptic  line  of 

mystery 
Strikes  bleakly  with  an  unrelenting 

scope, 
Foreshowing  life  and  death. 

Eve.  By  dream,  or  sense. 

Do  we  see  this  ? 
Adam.  Our    spirits    have    climbed 

high 
By  reason  of  the  passion  of  our  grief, 
And   from  the   top   of  sense  looked 

over  sense, 
To    the    significance    and    heart    of 

things. 
Rather  than  things  themselves. 
Eve.  And  the  dim  twelve  .  .  . 

Adam.  Are  dim  exponents  of  the 

creature-life, 


As  earth  contains  it.     Gaze  on  them, 

beloved  ! 
By  stricter  apprehension  of  the  sight, 
Suggestions    of    the    creatures    shall 

assuage 
The  terror  of  the   shadows;  what  is 

known 
Subduing  the  unknown,  and  taming 

it 
From    all    prodigious    dread.      That 

phantasm,  there, 
Presents  a  lion,  albeit  twenty  times 
As  large  as  any  lion,  with  a  roar 
Set  soundless  in  his  vibratory  jaws. 
And  a  strange  horror  stirring  in  his 

mane. 
And  there  a  pendulous  shadow  seems 

to  weigh, — 
Good    against    ill,     perchance;    and 

there  a  crab 
Puts  coldly  out  its  gradual  shadow- 
claws, 
Like  a  slow  blot  that  spreads,  till  all 

the  ground 
Crawled  over  by  it  seems  to  crawl 

itself. 
A  bull  stands  horned  here,  with  gib- 
bous glooms ; 
And  a  ram  likewise;  and  a  scorpion 

writhes 
Its  tail  in  ghastly  slime,  and  stings  the 

dark. 
This    way  a    goat    leaps    with    wild 

blank  of  beard; 
And  here  fantastic  fishes  duskly  float. 
Using  the  calm  for  waters,  while  their 

fins 
Throb  out  quick  rhythms  along  the 

shallow  air. 
While  images  more  human  — 

Eve.  How  he  stands, 

That    phantasm  of  a  man  —  who  is 

not  thou ! 
Two  phantasms  of  two  men  ! 

Adam.  One  that  sustains, 

And  one  that  strives,   resuming,  so, 

the  ends 
Of  manhood's  curse  of  labor.i    Dost 

thou  see 

'  Adam  recognizes  in  Aquarius  the 
water-bearer,  and  Sagittarius  the  archer, 
distinct  types  of  the  man  bearing  and  the 
man  eombating,  —  the  passive  and  active 
forms  of  human  labor.  I  hope  that  the  pre- 
ceding zodiacal  signs  —  transferred  to  the 
earthly  shadow  and  representative  purpose 
—  of  Aries,  Taurus,  Cancer,  Leo,  Libra, 
Scorpio,  Capricornus,  and  Pisces,  are  suffi- 
ciently obvious  to  the  reader. 


A    DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


That  phantasm  of  a  woman  ? 
Eve.  I  have  seen; 

But  look  off  to  those  small  humani- 
ties ^ 

Which   draw  me  tenderly  across  my 
fear — 

Lesser  and  fainter  than  my  woman- 
hood, 

Or  yet  thy  manhood  — with  strange 
innocence 

Set  in  the  misty   lines  of   head  and 
hand. 

They  lean  together  !  I  would  gaze  on 
them 

Longer  and  longer,  till  my  watching 
eyes, 

As    the    stars    do   in   watching    any 
thing. 

Should  light  them  forward  from  then- 
outline  vague 

To  clear  configuration. 

[  Two  spirits,  of  organic  and  iiwrganic 
nature,  arise  frovx  the  ground.'\ 

But  what  shapes 
Rise  up  between  us  in  the  open  space, 
And  thrust  me  into  horror,  back  from 
hope ! 
Adam.  Colossal  shapes  —  twiu  sov- 
ran images, 
With  a  disconsolate,  blank  majesty 
Set  in  their  wondrous  faces;  with  no 

look. 
And  yet  an  aspect,  —  a  significance 
Of    individual    life     and    passionate 

ends, 
W^hich  overcomes  us  gazing. 

O  bleak  sound  ! 
O  shadow  of  sound !  O  phantasm  of 

thin  sound  ! 
How  it  comes,  wheeling,  as  the  pale 

moth  wheels, — 
Wheeling  and  wheeling   in  continu- 
ous wail 
Around  the  cyclic  zodiac,  and  gains 

force. 
And  gathers,   settling  coldly  like  a 

moth. 
On  the  wan  faces  of  these  images 
We  see  before  us,  whereby  modified, 
It  draws  a  straight  line  of  articulate 

song 
From  out  that  spiral  faintness  of  la- 
ment. 
And    by   one  voice   expresses  many 
griefs. 


1  Her    maternal 
Oem,ini. 


iustincl    is     excited    by 


First  Spirit. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  harmless  earth. 
God  spake  me  softly  out  among  the 
stars, — 
As  softly  as  a  blessing  of  much  worth ; 
And  then  his  smile  did  follow,  un- 
awares. 
That  all  things  fashioned  so  for  use 

and  duty 
Might  shine  anointed  with  his  chrism 
of  beauty  — 

Yet  I  wail ! 
I  drave  on   with    the  worlds    exult- 
ingly. 
Obliquely    down     the     Godlight's 
gradual  fall; 
Individual  aspect  and  complexity 

Of  gyratory  orb  and  interval 
Lost  in  the  fluent  motion  of  delight 
Toward  the  high  ends  of  Being  be- 
yond sight  — 

Yet  I  wail  ! 
Second  Spirit. 
I  am  the  spirit  of  the  harmless  beasts. 
Of     flying     things,     and     creeping 
things,  and  swimming; 
Of    all    the    lives,   erst  set  at  silent 
feasts. 
That  found  the  love-kiss  on  the  gob- 
let brimming, 
And  tasted  in  each  drop  within  the 

measure 
The  sweetest  pleasure  of  their  Lord's 
good  pleasure  — 
Yet  I  wail  1 
What  a  full  hum  of  life  around  his  lips 
Bore  witness  to  the  fulness  of  crea- 
tion ! 
How  all  the  grand  words  were  full- 
laden  ships. 
Each  sailing  onward  from  enuncia- 
tion 
To  separate  existence,  and  each  bear- 
ing 
The  creature's  power  of  joying,  hop- 
ing, fearing !  — 
Yet  I  wail ! 
Eve.  They  wail,  beloved!  they  speak 
of  glory  and  God, 
And  they  wail  —  wail.     That  burden 

of  the  song 
Drops  from  it  like  its  fruit,  and  heavi- 
ly falls 
Into  the  lap  of  silence. 
Adam.  Hark,  again  ! 

Fii'st  Spirit. 
1  was  so  beautiful,  so  beautiful. 
My  joy  stood  up  within  me  bold  to 
add 


1 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


A    word    to    Clod's,    and,    wlicii    liis 
work  was  full. 
To  "  very  good,"  responded  "  very 
glad  !  " 
Filtered  through  roses,  did  the  light 

enclose  me. 
And  bunches  of  the  grape  swam  blue 
across  me  — 

Yet  I  wail ! 
Second  Spirit. 
I  bounded  with   my  panthers:   I  re- 
joiced 
In  my  young  tumbling  lions  rolled 
together: 
My  stag,   the  river  at    his    fetlocks, 
poised, 
Then  dipped  his  antlers  through  the 
golden  weather 
In  the  same  ripple  which  the  alliga- 
tor 
Left,  in  his  joyous  troubling  of  the 
,     water  — 

Yet  I  wail ! 
First  Spirit. 
O  my  deep  waters,  cataract  and  flood. 
What  wordless  triumph   did  your 
voices  render  ! 
O  mountain-summits,  where  the  an- 
gels stood, 
And  shook    from    head   and  wing 
thick  dews  of  splendor  ! 
How    with    a    holy    quiet    did    your 

Earthy 
Accept  that  Heavenly,   knowing  ye 
were  worthy !  — 
Yet  I  wail ! 
Second  Spirit. 
O  my  wild  wood-dogs,  with  your  lis- 
tening eyes; 
My  horses;   my  ground-eagles,  for 
swift  fleeing; 
My  birds,  with  viewless  wing  of  har- 
monies; 
My   calm    cold    fishes    of    a   silver 
being,  — 
How  happy  were  ye,  living  and  2:)os- 
sessing, 

0  fair    half-souls    capacious    of    full 

blessing !  — 

Yet  I  wail ! 
First  Spirit. 

1  wail,  I  wail !    Now  hear  my  charge 

to-day. 
Thou  man,  thou  woman,  marked  as 

the  misdoers 
By  God's  sword  at  your   backs !     I 

lent  nay  clay 
To  make  your  bodies,  which  had 

grown  more  flowers; 


And  now,  in  change  for  what  I  lent, 

ye  give  me 
The  thorn  to  vex,  the  tempest-fire  to 
cleave  me  — 

And  I  wail  ! 
Second  Spirit. 
I  wail,   I  wail  !     Behold  ye,   that  I 
fasten 
My  sorrow's  fang  upon  your  souls 
dishonored  ? 
Accursed    transgressors !    down    the 
steep  ye  hasten, 
Your  crown's  weight  on  the  world, 
to  drag  it  downward 
Unto  your  ruin.    Lo  !  my  lions  scent- 
ing 
The  blood  of  wars,  roar  hoarse  and 
unrelenting  — 

And  I  wail ! 
First  Spirit. 
I  wail,  I  wail !    Do  you  hear  that  I 
wail  ? 
I  had  no  part  in  your  transgression 
—  none. 
My  roses  on  the  bough  did  bud,  not 
pale ; 
My  rivers  did  not  loiter  in  the  sun; 
I  was  obedient.     Wherefore    in    my 

centre 
Do  I  thrill  at  this  curse  of  death  and 
winter  ?  — 

Do  I  wail  ? 
Second  Spirit. 
I  wail,  I  wail !  I  wail  in  the  assault 
Of    undeserved     perditiou,    sorely 
wounded ! 
My  nightingale  sang  sweet  without  a 
fault; 
My     gentle     leopards     innocently 
bounded. 
We  were  obedient.     What  is  this  con- 

ATilses 
Our  blameless  life  with    pangs  and 
fever-jiulses  ?  — 

And  I  wail ! 
Eve.  I  choose    God's  thunder  and 
his  angels'  swords 
To  die  by,  Adam,  rather  than  such 

words. 
Let  us  pass  out,  and  flee. 

Adam.  We  cannot  flee. 

This  zodiac  of  the  creatures'  cruelty 
Curls  round  us,  like  a  river  cold  and 

drear. 
And  shuts  us  in,  constraining  us  to 
hear. 
First  Spirit. 
I  feel  your  steps,  O  wandering  sin- 
ners, strike 


196 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


A  sense  of  death  to  me,  and  undug 


graves 


The  heart  of  eartli,  once  caha,  is  trem- 
bling like 
The  ragged  foam   along  the  ocean- 
waves; 

The  restless  earthquakes  rock  against 
each  other; 

The     elements     moan     round      me, 
"  Mother,  mother  "  — 
And  I  wail ! 
Second  Spirit. 

Your  melancholy  looks  do  pierce  me 
through ; 
Corruption  swathes  the  paleness  of 
your  beautj'. 

Why  have  ye  done  this  thing  ?    What 
did  we  do 
That  we  should  fall  from  bliss,  as  ye 
from  duty  ? 

Wild  shriek  the  hawks,  in  waiting  for 
their  jesses, 

Fierce  howl  the  wolves  along  the  wil- 
dernesses — 

And  I  wail  ! 
Adam.  To  thee,  the    Spirit  of    the 
harmless  earth, 

To  thee,  the  Spirit  of  earth's  harmless 
lives, 

Inferior  creatures,  but  still  innocent, 

Be  salutation  from  a  guilty  mouth 

Yet  worthy  of  some  audience  and  re- 
spect 

From  you  who  are  not  guilty.     If  we 
have  sinned, 

God  hath  rebuked  us,  who  is  over  us 

To  give  rebuke  or  death,  and  if  ye 
wail 

Because  of    any  suffering  from   our 
sin,  — 

Ye  who  are  under  and  not  over  us,  — 

Be  satisfied  with  God,  if  not  witli  us, 

And  i^ass  out  from   our  presence  in 
such  peace 

As  we  have  left  you,  to  enjoy  revenge 

Such  as  the  heavens  have  made  you. 
Verily, 

There    imist    be    strife    between    us 
large  as  sin. 
Eve.  No    strife,   mine   Adam  !    Let 
us  not  stand  high 

Upon  the  wrong  we  did  to  reach  dis- 
dain, 

Who  rather  should  be  humbler  ever- 
more. 

Since  self-made  sadder. 
I  speak, 

I  who  spake  once  to   such  a  bitter 
end, — 


Adam,  shall 


Shall  I  speak  humbly  now,  who  once 
was  proud  ? 

I,  schooled  by  sin  to  more  humility 

Than  thou  hast,  O  mine  Adam,  O  my 
king,  — 

My  king,  if  not  the  world's  ? 
Adam.  Speak  as  thou  wilt. 

Eve.  Thus,     tlien,     my     hand     in 
thine  — 

.  .  .  Sweet,  dreadful  Spirits  ! 

I   pray  you   humbly,  in  the  name  of 
God, 

Not  to  say  of  these  tears,  which  are 
impure  — 

Grant  me  such   pardoning  grace    a.s 
can  go  forth 

From  clean  volitions  toward  a  spotted 
will, 

From  the  wronged   to  the  wronger, 
this  and  no  more  ! 

I  do  not  ask  more.    I  am  'ware,  in- 
deed, 

That  absolute  pardon  is  impossible 

From  you    to    me,  by   reason  of  my 
sin; 

And  that  I  cannot  evermore,  as  once, 

With  worthy  acceptation  of  pure  joy, 

Behold  the  trances  of  the  holy  hills 

Beneath  the  leaning  stars,  or  watch 
the  vales 

Dew-pallid  with  their  morning  ecsta- 
sy; 

Or    hear    the  winds    make    pastoral 
peace  between 

Two  grassy  uplands;   and  the  river- 
wells 

Work  out  their  bubbling  mysteries 
underground; 

And  all  the  birds  sing,  till,  for  joy  of 
song. 

They  lift  their  trembling  wings  as  if 
to  heave 

The  too-much  weight  of  music  from 
their  heart 

And  float  it  up  the  ether.    I  am  'ware 

That  these  things  I  can  no  more  ap- 
prehend 

With  a  pure  organ  into  a  full  delight. 

The  sense  of  beauty  and  of  melody 

Being  no  more  aided  in  me  by  the 
sense 

Of     i^ersonal    adjustment    to    those 
heights 

Of  what  I  see  well  formed,  or  hear 
well  tuned, 

But  rather  coupled  darkly,  and  made 
ashamed 

By  my  jjercipiency  of  sin  and  fall 

In  melancholy  of  humiliant  thoughts. 


A   DJiAMA    OF  EXILE. 


19' 


But,  oh  !  fair,  dreadful  Spirits  —  albeit 

this, 
Your  accusation   must  confront   my 

soul, 
Aud  your  pathetic  utterance  and  full 

gaze 
Must  evermore  subdue  me,  —  be  con- 
tent! 
Conquer  me  gently,  as  if  pitying  me. 
Not  to  say  loving;   let  my  tears  fall 

thick 
As    watering   dews    of    Eden,   unre- 

proached; 
And,  when  your  tongues  reprove  me, 

make  me  smooth. 
Not  ruffled,  —  smooth  and  still  with 

your  reproof. 
And,  peradventure,  better  while  more 

sad. 
For  look  to  it,  sweet  Spirits,  look  well 

to  it. 
It  will  not  be  amiss  in  you,  who  kept 
The  law  of  your  own  righteousness, 

and  keep 
The    right    of    your    own    griefs    to 

mourn  themselves, 
To  pity  me  twice  fallen,  —  from  that 

and  this. 
From  joy  of  place,  and  also  right  of 

wail ; 
"I   wail"    being   not   for   me,  —  only 

"I  sin." 
Look  to  it,  O  sweet  Spirits  ! 

For  was  I  not. 
At  that  last  sunset  seen  in  Paradise, 
When  all  the  westering  clouds  flashed 

out  in  throngs 
Of  sudden  angel-faces,  face  by  face. 
All  hushed  and  solemn,  as  a  thought 

of  God 
Heid  them  suspended,  —  was  I  not, 

that  hour, 
The   lady  of    the   world,  princess  of 

life, 
^Mistress  of  feast  and  favor  ?    Could 

I  touch 
A  rose  with  my  white  hand,  but  it  be- 
came 
Redder  at  once  ?    Could  I  walk  leis- 
urely 
Along  our  swarded  garden,  but  the 

grass 
Tracked  me  with  greenness  ?    Could 

I  stand  aside 
A  moment  underneath  a  cornel-tree. 
But    all    the    leaves    did  tremble  as 

alive 
With  songs  of  fifty  birds  who  were 

made  glad 


Because  I  stood  there  ?    Could  I  turn 
to  look 

With  these  twain  eyes  of  mine,  —  now 
weeping  fast. 

Now  good  for  only  weeping,  —  upon 
man. 

Angel,  or  beast,  or  bird,  but  each  re- 
joiced 

Because    I    looked    on    him  ?     Alas, 

alas ! 
'And  is  not  this  much  woe,  —  to  cry 
''Alas!" 

Speaking  of    joy  ?     And  is   not   this 
more  shame,  — 

To  have  made  the  woe  myself,  from 
all  that  joy  ? 

To    have    stretched    my    hand,    and 
plucked  it  from  the  tree, 

And  chosen  it  for  fruit  ?    Nay,  is  not 
this 

Still  most  despair,  —  to  have  halved 
that  bitter  fruit. 

And  ruined  so  the    sweetest   friend 
I  have, 

Turning  the  Greatest  to  mine  ene- 
my? 
Adam.  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak 
so.     Hearken,  Spirits  ! 

Our  God,  who  is  the  enemy  of  none, 

But  only  of  their  sin,  hath  set  your 
hope 

And  my  hope  in  a  promise   ou   this 
head. 

Show    reverence,    then,    aud    never 
bruise  her  more 

With  unpermitted  and    extreme  re- 
proach, 

Lest,  passionate  in  anguish,  she  tling 
down 

Beneath  your  trampling  feet  God's 
gift  to  us 

Of  sovran ty  by  reason  and  freewill. 

Sinning  against  the  province  of  the 
soul 

To  rule  the  soulless.     Reverence  her 
estate. 

And  pass  out  from  lier  presence  with 
no  words. 
Eve.  O  dearest  heart,  have  patience 
with  my  heart ! 

O  Spirits,  have  patience,  'stead  of  rev- 
erence. 

And  let  me  speak;  for,  not  being  in-' 
nocent, 

It  little  doth  become  me  to  be  proud. 

And    I    am    prescient    by    the    very 
hope 

And  promise  set  upon  me,  that  hence- 
forth 


i 


198 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


Only  my  gentleness  shall  make  me 

great, 
My    humbleness    exalt    me.     Awful 

Spirits, 
Be  witness  that  I  stand  in  your  re- 
proof 
But  one  sun's  length  off    from    my 

happiness  — 
Happy,  as  I  have  said,  to  look  around. 
Clear  to  look  up  !  —  and  now  !    I  need 

not  speak  — 
Ye  see  me  what  I  am:  ye  scorn  me  so, 
Because  ye  see  me  what  I  have  made 

myself 
From   God's  best  making !    Alas,  — 

peace  foregone. 
Love  wronged,  and  virtue  forfeit,  and 

tears  wept 
Upon  all,  vainly  !  Alas,  me  1  alas, 
Who  have  undone  myself  from  all 

that  best. 
Fairest,  and  sweetest,  to  this  wretch- 

edest. 
Saddest,  and  most  defiled  —  cast  out, 

cast  down  — 
What  word  metes  absolute  loss  ?   Let 

absolute  loss 
Suffice  you  for  revenge.    For  /,  who 

lived 
Beneath  the  wings  of  angels  yester- 
day, 
Wander  to-day  beneath  the  roofless 

world: 
I,  reigning  the  earth's  empress  yes- 
terday. 
Put  off    from  me    to-day  your  hate 

with  prayers: 
/,  yesterday,  who  answered  the  Lord 

God, 
Composed  and  glad  as  singing-birds 

the  sun, 
Might  shriek  now  from  our  dismal 

desert,  "  God," 
And  hear  him  make  reply,  "  What  is 

thy  need,  — 
Thou  whom  I  cursed  to-day  ?  " 
Adam.  Eve ! 

Eve.  I,  at  last, 

Who  yesterday  was  helpmate  and  de- 
light 
Unto  mine  Adam,  am  to-day  the  grief 
And    curse-meet    for    him.    And    so 

pity  us, 
Ye  gentle  Spirits,   and    pardon  him 

and  me; 
And  let  some  tender  peace,  made  of 

our  pain, 
Grow  up  betwixt  us,  as  a  tree  might 

grow. 


With  boughs  on  both  sides  !   in  the 

shade  of  which, 
When  presently  ye  shall  behold  us 

dead. 
For  the  poor  sake  of  our  humility 
Breathe    out    your    pardon    on    our 

breathless  lips. 
And  drop  your  twilight  dews  against 

our  brows, 
And    stroking    with    mild    airs    our 

harmless  hands 
Left  empty  of  all  fruit,  perceive  your 

love 
Distilling  through  your  pity  over  us, 
And  suffer  it,  self-reconciled,  to  pass  ! 

LuciFEK  rises  in  the  circle. 

Luc.  Who  talks  here  of  a  comple- 
ment of  grief  ? 

Of    expiation  wrought    by   loss    and 
fall? 

Of  hate  subduable  to  pity  ?    Eve  ? 

Take  counsel  from  thy  counsellor  the 
snake,. 

And  boast  no  more  in  grief,  nor  hope 
from  pain, 

My  docile  Eve  !   I  teach  you  to  de- 
spond. 

Who  taught  you  disobedience.    Look 
around ! 

Earth-spirits  and  phantasms  hear  you 
talk  unmoved, 

As  if    ye  were  red  clay  again,  and 
talked. 

What  are  your  words  to  them  ?  your 
grief  to  them  ? 

Your  deaths,  indeed,  to  them  ?    Did 
the  hand  pause 

For  their  sake,  in  the  plucking  of  the 
fruit. 

That  they  should  pause  for  yoxl  in 
hating  you? 

Or  will  your  grief  or  death,  as  did 
your  sin, 

Bring  change  upon  their  final  doom  ? 
Behold, 

Your  grief  is  but  your  sin  in  the  re- 
bound, 

And  cannot  expiate  for  it. 
Adam.  That  is  true. 

Luc.  Ay ;    that  is  true.     The  clay 
king  testifies 

To  the  snake's  counsel,  —  hear  him!  — 
very  true. 
Earth-spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail! 
Luc.  And  certes,  that  is  true. 

Ye  wail,  ye  all  wail.     Peradventure  I 

Could  wail  among  you.     O  thou  uni- 
verse, 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


199 


That    boldest    sin    and    woe,  —  more 

room  for  wail ! 
Distant  Starry  Voice.  Ah,  ah,  Heos- 

phoros!     Heosphoros! 
Adam.  Mark  Lucifer  !     He  changes 

awfully. 
Eve.   It  seems  as  if  he  looked  from 
'  grief  to  God, 
And  could   not  see  him.      "Wretched 

Lucifer! 
Adam.    How    he    stands  —  yet    an 

angel! 
Earth-spirits.         "We  all  wail! 
Luc.  {after  a  pa?«e).    Dost  thou  re- 
member, Adam,  when  the  curse 
Took  us  in  Eden?    On  a  mountain- 
peak 
Half-sheathed  in  primal  woods,  and 

glittering 
In  spasms  of  awful  sunshine  at  that 

hour, 
A  lion  couched,  part  raised  upon  his 

paws, 
"With  his  calm,  massive  face  turned 

full  on  thine, 

his  mane  listening.     "When  the 

ended  cvirse 

silence  in  the  world,  right  sud- 
denly 
sprang    up    rampant,   and    stood 

straight  and  stiff, 
As  if  the  new  reality  of  death 
"Were   dashed  against  his  eyes,   and 

roared  so  fierce, 
(Such  thick  carnivorous    passion    in 

his  throat 
Tearing  a  passage  through  the  wrath 

and  fear) 
And  roared  so  wild,  and  smote  from 

all  the  hills 
Such    fast    keen    echoes    crumbling 

down  the  vales 
Precipitately,  —  that  the  forest  beasts, 
One  after  one,  ditl  mutter  a  response 
Of  savage  and  of  sorrowful  complaint 
Which  trailed  along  the  gorges.   Then, 

at  once, 
He  fell  back,  and  rolled  crashing  from 

the  height 
Into  the  dusk  of  pines. 

Adam.  It  might  have  been. 

I  heard  the  curse  alone. 
Earth-spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail! 

Luc.  That  lion  is  the  type  of  what 

I  am. 
And  as  he  fixed  thee  with  his   full- 
faced  hate. 
And  roared  O  Adam,  comprehending 

doom, 


And 
Left 
He 


So,  gazing  on  the  face  of  the  Unseen, 
I  cry  out  here  between  the  heavens 

and  earth 
My  conscience  of  this  sin,  this  woe, 

this  wrath, 
"Which  damn  me  to  this  depth. 
Earth-spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail! 

Eve.  I  wail  — O  God! 
Luc.  I  scorn  you  that  ye  wail, 

"Who  use  your  petty  griefs  for  pedes- 
tals 
To    stand  on,    beckoning    pity  from 

without. 
And  deal  in  pathos  of  antithesis 
Of  what  ye  rvere  forsooth,  and  what 

ye  are ! — 
I  scorn  you  like  an  angel !     Yet  one 

cry 
I,  too,  would  drive  up  like  a  column 

erect, 
Marble  to  marble,  from  my  heart  to 

heaven, 
A  monument  of  anguish  to  transpierce 
And  overtop  your  vapory  complaints 
Expressed  from  feeble  woes. 
Earth-spirits.  I  wail,  I  wail! 

Luc.  For,  O  ye  heavens,  ye  are  my 

witnesses, 
That  J,  struck  out  from  nature  in  a 

blot, 
The  outcast  and  the  mildew  of  things 

good, 
The  leper  of  angels,  the  excepted  dust 
Under    the    common    rain    of    daily 

gifts, — 
I    the    snake,   I    the  tempter,   I  the 

cursed, — 
To  whom  the  highest  and  the  lowest 

alike 
Say,  Go  from  us  :  we  have  no  need 

of  thee, — 
"Was  made  by  God  like  others.    Good 

and  fair 
He  did  create  me!    ask  him  if    not 

fair; 
Ask  if  I  caught  not  fair  and  silverly 
His  blessing  for  chief  angels  on  my 

head 
Until  it  grew  there,  a  crown  crystal- 
lized; 
Ask  if  he  never  called  me  by  my  name, 
Lucifer,  kindly  said  as  "  Gabriel "  — 
Lucifer,  soft  as  "Michael!  "  while  se- 
rene 
I,  standing  in  the  glory  of  the  lamps, 
Answered,  "  My  Father,"  innocent  of 

shame 
And  of  the  sense  of  thunder.     Ha!  ye 

think. 


200 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


"White   angels   in  jonr  niches,  I  re- 
pent, 
And   would  tread  down  my  own  of- 

To  service    at  the  footstool  ?    That's 

read  wrong! 
I  cry  as  the  beast  did,  that  I  may  cry 
Expansive,  not  appealing!     Fallen  so 

deep, 
Against  the  sides  of  this  prodigious 

pit 
I   cry,  cry,  dashing  out  the  hands  of 

wail 
On  each  side,  to  meet  anguish  every- 
where. 
And  to  attest  it  in  the  ecstasy 
And  exaltation  of  a  woe  sustained. 
Because  provoked  and  chosen. 

Pass  along 
Your  wilderness,  A'ain  mortals!     Puny 

griefs 
In   transitory  shapes,   be  henceforth 

dwarfed 
To  your  own  conscience  by  the  dread 

extremes 
Of  what  I  am  and  have  been.     If  ye 

have  fallen. 
It  is  but  a  step's  fall,  the  whole  ground 

beneath 
Strewn  woolly  soft  with  promise:   if 

ye  have  sinned, 
Your  jn-ayers  tread  high  as  angels;  if 

ye  have  grieved. 
Ye  are  too  mortal  to  be  pitiable : 
The  power  to  die  disproves  the  right 

to  grieve. 
Go  to  !    Ye   call  this  ruin  ?      I    half 

scorn 
The  ill  I  did  you!    Were  ye  wronged 

by  me. 
Hated  and   tempted  and  undone    of 

me, 
Still,   what's    your  hurt  to  mine    of 

doing  hurt, 
Of  hating,  tempting,  and  so  ruining  ? 
This  sword's  hilt  is  the  sharpest,  and 

cuts  through 
The  hand  that  wields  it. 

Go!  I  curse  you  all. 
Hate   one  another,  —  feebly,  —  as    ye 

can ! 
I  would  not  certes  cut  you  short  in 

hate: 
Far  be  it  from  me!    Hate   on   as  ye 

can ! 
I  breathe  into  your  faces,  Spirits  of 

earth. 
As  wintry  blast  may  breathe  on  win- 
try leaves, 


And,  lifting  up  their  brownness,  show 
beneath 

The    branches    bare.      Beseech    you, 
Spirits,  give 

To  Eve,  who  beggarly  entreats  your 
love 

For  her  and  Adam  when  they  shall  be 
dead. 

An  answer  rather  fitting  to  the  sin 

Than  to  the  sorrow,  as  the  heavens, 
I  trow, 

For  justice'  sake  gave  theirs. 

I  curse  you  both, 

Adam  and  Eve.     Say  grace,  as  after 
meat. 

After    my    curses.    May    your    tears 
fall  hot 

On  all  the  hissing  scorns  o'  the  crea- 
tures here  — 

And  yet  rejoice  !     Increase  and  mul- 
tiply, 

Ye  in  your  generations,  in  all  plagues, 

Corruptions,  melancholies,  poverties, 

And  hideous  forms  of  life  and  fears  of 
death, 

The  thought  of    death    being  alway 
eminent. 

Immovable,    and    dreadful    in    your 
life. 

And  deafly  and  dumbly  insignificant 

Of  any  hope  beyond,  as  death  itself, 

Whichever  of  you  lieth  dead  the  first. 

Shall  seem  to  the  survivor,  yet  re- 


joice 


My  curse  catch  at  you  strongly,  body 

and  soul, 
And  He  find  no  redemption,  nor  the 

wing 
Of  seraph  move  your  way  —  and  yet 


rejoice 


l_ 


Rejoice,  because  ye  have  not  set  in 

you 
This  hate  which  shall  pursue  you,  — 

this  fire-hate 
Which    glares    without,    because    it 

burns  within ; 
Which  kills  from  ashes,  —  this  poten- 
tial hate. 
Wherein  I,  angel,  in  antagonism 
To  God  and  his  reflex  beatitudes, 
Moan  ever  in  the  central  universe 
With  the  great  woe  of  striving  against 

Love, 
And  gasp  for  space  amid  the  Infinite, 
And  toss  for  rest  amid  the  Desert- 

ness. 
Self-orphaned  by  my  will,  and  self- 
elect 
To  kingship  of  resistant  agony 


i 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


201 


Toward  the  Good  round   ine,  hating; 

good  and  love, 
And  willing  to  hate  good  and  to  hate 

love, 
And  willing  to  will  on  so  evermore, 
Scorning  the  Past,  and  damning  the 

To  come  — 
Gro  and  rejoice  !  —  I  curse  you. 

[LuciFKR  vanishes. 
Earth-spirits. 
And  we  scorn  you  !    There's  no  par- 
don 
Which  can  lean  to  you  aright. 
When  your  bodies  take  the  guerdon 
Of  the  death-curse  in  oiir  sight. 
Then  the  bee  that  hummeth   lowest 
shall  transcend  you; 
Then  ye  shall  not  move  an  eyelid, 
Though  the  stars  look  down  your 
eyes ; 
And  the  earth  which  ye  defiled 
Shall  expose  you  to  the  skies,  — 
"  Lo  !  these  kings  of  ours,  wlio  sought 

to  comprehend  you." 
First  Sjiirit. 
And  the  elements  shall  boldly 

All  your  dust  to  dust  constrain. 
Unresistedly  and  coldly 

I  will  smite  you  with  my  rain. 
From  the  slowest  of  my  frosts  is  no 

receding. 
Second  Spirit. 
And  my  little  worm,  aiJjiointed 

To  assume  a  royal  part. 
He  shall  reign,  crowned  and  anoint- 
ed, 
O'er  the  noble  human  heart. 
Give  him  counsel   against  losing  of 
that  Eden  ! 
Adam.  Do  ye  scorn  us  ?    Back  your 

scorn 
Toward  your  faces  gray  and  lorn, 

As  the  wind  drives  back  the  rain. 
Thus  I  drive  with  passion-strife,  — 
I,  who  stand  beneath  God's  sun, 
Made    like  God,   and,   though  un- 
done, 
Not  unmade  for  love  and  life. 
Lo  !  ye  utter  threats  in  vain. 
By  my  free  will  that  chose  sin, 
By  mine  agony  within 
Round  the  passage  of  the  fire, 

By  the  pinings  which  disclose 
That  my  native  soul  is  higher 
Than  what  it  chose. 
We  are  yet  too  high,  O  SiJirits,  for 
your  disdain. 
Eve.  Nay,    beloved !     If   these    be 
low. 


We  confront  them  from  no  height. 
Wp    have    stooped    down   to   their 

level 
By  infecting  them  with  evil, 
And  their  scorn  that  meets  our  blow 

Scathes  aright. 
Amen.     Let  it  be  so. 
Earth-spirits. 
We  shall  triumpli,  triumph  greatly. 

When  ye  lie  beneath  the  sward. 
There  our  lily  shall  grow  stately, 
Though  ye  answer  not  a  word, 
And  her  fragrance  shall  be  scornful  of 
your  silence: 
While  your  throne  ascending  calm- 
ly, 
We,  in  heirdom  of  your  soul, 
Flash  the  river,  lift  the  palm-tree. 
The  dilated  ocean  roll. 
By  the  thoughts  that  throbbed  within 
you,  round  the  islands. 

Alp  and  torrent  shall  inherit 

Your  significance  of  will, 
And  the  grandeur  of  your  spirit 
Shall  our  broad  savannahs  fill; 
In  our  winds  your  exultations  shall 
be  springing. 
Even  your  parlance,  which  invei- 
■  gles, 
Bj'  our  rudeness  shall  be  won. 
Hearts  poetic  in  our  eagles 
Shall  beat  up  against  the  sun, 
And  strike  downward  in  articulate 
clear  singing. 

Your  bold  speeches  our  Behemoth 
With    his    thunderous  jaw  shall 
wield. 
Your  high  fancies  shall  our  Mam- 
moth 
Breathe  sublimely  up  the  shield 
Of  St.  Michael  at  God's  throne,  who 
waits  to  speed  him, 
Till  the    heavens'   smooth-grooved 
thunder, 
Spinning  back,  shall  leave  them 
clear. 
And  the  angels,  smiling  wonder 
With  dropt  looks  from  sphere  to 
sphere. 
Shall  cry,  "Ho, ye  heirs  of  Adam  !  ye 
exceed  him." 
Adam.  Root  oiat  thine  eyes,  sweet, 
from  the  dreary  ground  I 
Beloved,   we    may  be    overcome   by 

God, 
But  not  bj'  these. 
Eve,         By  God,  perhaps,  in  these. 


A    DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


Adam.  I  think  not  so.    Had   God 

foredoomed  despair, 
He  had  not  spoken  hope.     He  may 

destroy 
Certes,  but  not  deceive. 

Eve.  Behold  this  rose  ! 

I  plucked  it  in  our  bower  of  Paradise 
This  morning,  as  I  went  forth,  and  my 

heart 
Has  beat    against  its  petals  all  the 

day. 
I  thought  it  would  be  always  red  and 

full, 
As  when    I    plucked  it.    Is  it?    Ye 

may  see. 
I  cast  it  down  to  you  that  ye  may  see, 
All  of  you  !     Count  the  petals  lost  of 

it, 
And  note  the  colors  fainted  !    Ye  may 

see  ! 
And  I  am  as  it  is,  who  yesterday 
Grew    in    the    same    place.     Oh    ye 

Spirits  of  earth, 
I  almost,  from  my  miserable  heart. 
Could  here  ujibraid  you  for  your  cruel 

heart. 
Which  will  not  let  me,  down  the  slope 

of  death. 
Draw  any  of  your  pity  after  me. 
Or  lie  still  in  the  quiet  of  your  looks, 
As  my  flower,  there,  in  mine. 

[A  bleak  wind,  quickened  with  indistinct 
human  voices,  spins  around  the 
earth-zodiac,  filling  the  circle  with 
its  presence,  and  then,  wailing  off 
into  the  east,  carries  the  7-ose  away 
with  it.  'Eve  falls  upon  her  face. 
Adam  stands  erect. 

Adcmi.  So,  verily. 

The  last  departs. 
Eve.  So  memory  follows  hope. 

And    life    both.     Love    said    to  me, 
"  Do  not  die," 

And  I  replied,  "  O  Love,  I  will   not 
die. 

I  exiled  and  I  will  not  orphan  Love."' 

But  now  it  is  no  choice  of  mine  to 
die: 

My  heart  throbs  from  me. 
Adam.        Call  it  straightway  back  ! 

Death's  consummation  crowns  com- 
pleted life, 

Or  comes  too  early.    Hope  being  set 
on  thee 

For    others,    if  for    others,  then  for 
thee,  — 

For  thee  and  me. 

[The  wind  revolves  from   the  east,  and 


round  again  to  the  east,  perfumed 
by  the  Fden-rose,  and  full  of  voices 
iDhich  sioeep  oxit  into  articulation  as 
they  pass. 

Let  thy  soul  shake  its  leaves 
To  feel  the  mystic  wind  —  hark  ! 
Eve.  I  hear  life. 

Infant  Voices  passing  in  the  vjind. 

Oh,  we  live  !  oh,  we  live  ! 

And  this  life  that  we  receive 
Is  a  warm  thing  and  a  new. 
Which  we  softly  bud  into 
From  the  heart  and  from  the  brain. 
Something  strange  that  overmuch  is 

Of  the  sound  and  of  the  sight. 
Flowing  round  in  trickling  touches'. 

With  a  sorrow  and  delight; 
Yet  is  it  all  in  vain  ? 

Rock  us  softly, 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Youthful  Voices  passing. 
Oh,  we  live!  oh,  we  live  ! 
And  this  life  that  we  achieve 
Is  a  loud  thing  and  a  bold. 
Which,  with  pulses  manifold. 
Strikes  the  heart  out  full  and  fain,  — 
Active  doer,  noble  liver. 

Strong  to  struggle,  sure  to  conquer. 
Though  the  vessel's  prow  will  quiver 

At  the  lifting  of  the  anchor; 
Yet  do  we  strive  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Poet  Voices  passing . 
Oh,  we  live  !  oh,  we  live  ! 
And  this  life  that  we  conceive 
Is  a  clear  thing  and  a  fair. 
Which  we  set  in  crystal  air 
That  its  beauty  may  be  plain. 
With  a  breathing  and  a  flooding 

Of  the  heaven-life  on  the  whole, 
While  we  hear  the  forests  budding 

To  the  music  of  the  soul ; 
Yet  is  it  tuned  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing . 

Rock  us  softly. 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Philosophic  Voices  passing. 
Oh,  we  live  !  oh,  we  live  ! 
And  this  life  that  we  perceive 
Is  a  great  thing  and  a  grave. 
Which  for  others'  use  we  have, 
Duty-laden  to  remain. 
We  are  helpers,  fellow-creatures. 

Of  the  right  against  the  wrong, 
We  are  earnest-hearted  teachers 

Of  the  truth  which  maketh  strong; 
Yet  do  we  teach  in  vain  ? 


.1   DRAMA   OF  EXILE. 


20.3 


" 


Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
lievel  Voices  passing. 
Oh,  we  live  !  oh,  we  live  ! 
And  this  life  that  we  reprieve 
Is  a  low  thing  and  a  light, 
Which  is  jested  out  of  siglat. 
And  made  worthy  of  disdain. 
Strike  with  bold  electric  laughter 
The  high  tops  of  things  divine: 
Turn  thy  head,  my  brother,  after. 

Lest  thy  tears  fall  in  my  wine ; 
For  is  all  laughed  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly. 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Eve.  I  hear  a  sound  of  life,  —  of  life 
like  ours, 
Of  laughter  and  of  wailing,  of  grave 

speech, 
Of  little  plaintive  voices  innocent, 
Of  life  in  separate   courses,  flowing 

out 
Like  our  four  rivers  to  some  outward 

main. 
I  hear  life  —  life! 
Adam.         And  so  thy  cheeks  have 
snatched 
Scarlet  to  paleness,   and  thine  eyes 

drink  fast 
Of  glory  from  full  cups,  and  thy  moist 

lips 
Seem  trembling,  both  of  them,  with 

earnest  doubts 
Whether   to    utter    words,    or    only 
smile. 
Eve.  Shall  I  be  mother  of  the  com- 
ing life  ? 
Hear  the  steep  generations,  how  they 

fall 
Adown  the  visionary  stairs  of  Time 
Like  supernatural  thunders,  far,  yet 

near. 
Sowing  their  fiery  echoes  through  the 

hills  ! 
Am  I  a  cloud  to  these,  —  mother  to 
these  ? 
Earth-spirits.  And    bringer    of    the 
curse  upon  all  these. 

[Eve  sinks  dozen  again. 
Poet  Voices  passing, 
Oh,  we  live  !  oh,  we  live  ! 
And  this  life  that  we  conceive 
Is  a  noble  thing  and  high. 
Which  we  climb  up  loftily 
To  view  God  without  a  stain, 
Till,  recoiling  where  the  shade  is, 
We  retread  our  steps  again. 


sur- 


And  descend  the  gloomy  Hades 
To  resume  man's  mortal  pain. 
Shall  it  be  climbed  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly. 
Lest  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Love  Voices  ixissing. 
Oh,  we  live  !  oh,  we  live  ! 
And  this  life  we  would  retrieve 
Is  a  faithful  thing  apart 
Which  we  love  in,  heart  to  heart, 
Until  one  heart  fitteth  twain. 
"  Wilt  thou  be  one  with  me  ?  " 
"  I  will  be  one  with  thee." 
"  Ha,  ha!  we  love  and  live  !  " 
Alas !  ye  love  and  die. 
Shriek  —  who  shall  reply? 
For  is  it  not  loved  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly, 
Though  it  be  all  in  vain. 
Aged  Voices  passing. 
Oh,  we  live  !  oh,  we  live  ! 
And    this    life    we    would 

vive 
Is  a  gloomy  thing  and  brief. 
Which,  consummated  in  grief, 
Leaveth  ashes  for  all  gain. 
Is  it  not  all  in  vain  ? 
Infant  Voices  passing. 

Rock  us  softly. 
Though  it  be  all  in  vain. 

[  Voices  die  aioay. 
Earth-spirits.  And    bringer    of   the 

curse  upon  all  these. 
Eve.  The  voices  of  foreshown  hu- 
manity 
Die  off:  so  let  me  die. 

Adam.  So  let  us  die, 

When  God's  will  soundeth  the  right 
hour  of  death. 
Earth-spirits.  And    bringer  of    the 

curse  upon  all  these. 
Eve.  O  Spirits !  by  the  gentleness 
ye  use 
In  winds  at  night,  and  floating  clouds 

at  noon, 
In  gliding  waters  under  lily-leaves. 
In  chirp  of  crickets,  and  the  settling 

hush 
A  bird  makes  in  her  nest  with  feet 

and  wings,  — 
Fulfil  your  natures  now  ! 

Earth-spirits.  Agreed,  allowed  I 

We    gather  out    our    natures  like  a 

cloud, 
And    thus    fulfil     their     lightnings ! 
Thus,  and  thus  ! 

Harken,  oh,  barken  to  us  ! 


204 


A   DRAMA   OF  EXILE. 


First  Spirit. 
As    the    storm-wind    blows    bleakly 

from  the  norland, 
As  the  snow-wind   beats  blindly  on 

the  moorland, 
As  the  simoom  drives  hot  across  the 

desert, 
As    the    thunder  roars  deep  in    the 

Unmeasured, 
As  the  torrent  tears  the  ocean-world 

to  atoms, 
As  the  whirlpool  grinds  it  fathoms 
below  fathoms, 

Thus  —  and  thus  ! 
Second  Spirit. 
As  the  yellow  toad,  that  spits  its  poi- 
son chilly, 
As  the  tiger  in  the  jungle  crouching 

stilly. 
As  the  wild  boar,  with  ragged  tusks 

of  anger. 
As  the  wolf-dog,  with  teeth  of  glitter- 
ing clangor, 
As  the  vultures,  that  scream  against 

the  thunder, 
As  the  owlets,   that  sit,   and    moan 
asunder; 

Thus  —  and  thus  1 
Eve.  Adam  !  God  ! 
Adam.     Cruel,  unrelenting  Spirits  ! 
By  the  power  in  me  of  the  sovran  soul, 
Whose  thoughts  keep  pace  yet  with 

the  angel's  march, 
I   charge   you    into  silence,    trample 

you  " 
Down  to  obedience.     I   am   king  of 
you  ! 
Earth-Hpirit.'i. 
Ha,  ha  !  thou  art  king  ! 
With  a  sin  for  a  crown. 
And  a  soul  undone  ! 
Thou,  the  antagonized. 
Tortured,  and  agonized, 
Held  in  the  ring 
Of  the  zodiac  ! 
Now,  king,  beware  ! 
We  are  many  and  strong, 
Whom  thou  standest  among; 
And  we  press  on  the  air. 
And  we  stifle  thee  back, 
And  we  multiply  where 
Thou  wouldst  trample  us  down 
From  rights  of  our  own 
To  an  utter  wrong. 
And    from  under  the  feet   of  thy 
scorn, 

O  forlorn, 
We  shall  spring  up  like  corn. 
And  our  stubble  be  strong. 


Adam.  God,  there  is  power  in  thee  ! 
I  make  appeal 
Unto  thy  kingship. 
Eve.  There  is  pity  in  Thee, 

0  sinned  against,   great  God !      My 

seed,  my  seed, 

There  is  hope  set  on  Thee,  —  I  cry  to 
thee, 

Thou  mystic  Seed  that  shalt  be  !  — 
leave  us  not 

In  agony  beyond  what  we  can  bear, 

Fallen  in  debasement  below  thunder- 
mark, 

A  mark  for  scorning,  taunted  and 
perplext 

By  all  these  creatures  we  ruled  yes- 
terday, 

Whom  thou.  Lord,  rulest  alway  !  O 
my  Seed, 

Through  the  tempestous  years  that 
rain  so  thick 

Betwixt  my  ghostly  vision  and  thy 
face. 

Let  me  have  token  !  for  my  soul  is 
bruised 

Before  the  serpent's  head  is. 

[A  vision  of  Christ  appears  in  the 
midst  of  the  zodiac,  xohich  pales  be- 
fore the  heavenly  light.  The  Earth- 
spirits  grow  grayer  and  fainter. 

Christ.  I  am  here  ! 

Adam.  This  is  God  I  Curse  us  not, 

God,  any  more  ! 
Eve.  But  gazing  so,   so,   with   om- 
nific  eyes. 
Lift  my  soul  upward  till  it  touch  thy 

feet! 
Or    lift    it    only  —  not    to    seem    too 

proud  — 
To    the    low    height    of    some    good 

angel's  feet, 
For  such  to  tread  on  when  he  walketh 

straight. 
And  thy  lips  praise  him  ! 
Christ.  Spirits  of  the  earth, 

1  meet  you  with  rebuke  for  the  re- 

proach 

And  cruel  and  unmitigated  blame 

Ye  cast  upon  your  masters.  True, 
they  have  sinned; 

And  true  their  sin  is  reckoned  into 
loss 

For  you  the  sinless.  Yet  your  inno- 
cence, 

Which  of  you  praises  ?  since  God 
made  your  acts 

Inherent  in  your  lives,  and  bound 
your  hands 


A    DRAMA    OF  EXILE 


205 


With  instincts  and  imperious  sancti- 
ties 

From  self-defacement.  Which  of 
j'ou  disdains 

These  sinners,  who  in  falling  proved 
their  height 

Above  you  by  their  liberty  to  fall? 

And  which  of  you  complains  of  loss 
by  them, 

For  whose  delight  and  use  ye  have 
your  life 

And  honor  in  creation  ?     Ponder  it ! 

This  regent  and  sublime  Humanity, 

Though  fallen,  exceeds  you !  this 
shall  film  your  sun, 

Shall  hunt  your  lightning  to  its  lair 
of  cloud, 

Turn  back  your  rivers,  footpath  all 
your  seas, 

Lay  flat  your  forests,  master  with  a 
look 

Your  lion  at  his  fasting,  and  fetch 
down 

Your  eagle  flying.  Nay,  without  this 
law 

Of  mandom,  ye  would  perish,  —  beast 
by  beast 

Devouring,  —  tree  by  tree,  with  stran- 
gling roots 

And  trunks  set  tuskwise.  Ye  would 
gaze  on  God 

With  imperceptive  blankness  up  the 
stars. 

And  mutter,  "  Why,  God,  hast  thou 
made  us  thus?" 

And,  pining  to  a  sallow  idiocy. 

Stagger  up  blindly  against  the  ends 
of  life. 

Then  stagnate  into  rottenness,  and 
drop 

Heavily  —  poor,  dead  matter — piece- 
meal down 

The  abysmal  spaces,  like  a  little  stone 

Let  fall  to  chaos.    Therefore  over  you 

Receive  man's  sceptre  !  therefore  be 
content 

To  minister  with  voluntary  grace 

And  melancholy  pardon  every  rite 

And  function  in  you  to  the  human 
hand  ! 

Be  ye  to  man  as  angels  are  to  God,  — 

Servants  in  pleasure,  singers  of  de- 
light, 

Siiggesters  to  his  soul  of  higher  things 

Than  any  of  your  highest !    So  at  last. 

He  shall  look  round  on  you  with  lids 
too  straight 

To  hold  the  grateful  tears,  and  thank 
you  well, 


And 


he  prays  his 
he  sings  his 
he  has  learnt 


bless   you   when 

secret  prayers. 
And  praise  you,  when 

open  songs. 
For  the  clear  song-note 

in  you 
Of  purifying  sweetness,  and  extend 
Across  your  head  his  golden  fantasies 
Which    glorify  you    into    soul    from 

sense. 
Go,  serve  him  for  such  price  !    That 

not  in  vain. 
Nor  yet  ignobly,  ye  shall  serve,  I  place 
My  word  here  for  an  oath,  mine  oath 

for  act 
To    be    hereafter.    In    the    name    of 

which 
Perfect    redemption    and    perpetual 

grace 
I  bless  you  through  the    hope    and 

through  the  peace 
Which  are  mine,  —  to  the  love  which 

is  myself. 
Eve.  Speak  on  still,  Christ !    Albeit 

thou  bless  me  not 
In  set  words,  I  am  blessed  in  barken- 
ing thee  — 
Speak,  Christ ! 
Chbist.  Speak,  Adam  !     Bless  the 

woman,  man. 
It  is  thine  office. 

Adam.  Mother  of  the  world. 

Take  heart  before  this  Presence  !    Lo, 

my  voice. 
Which,  naming  erst  the  creatures,  did 

express 
(God  breathing  through  my  breath) 

the  attributes 
And  instincts  of  each  creature  in  its 

name. 
Floats  to  the  same  afflatus,  —  floats 

and  heaves. 
Like  a  water-weed  that  opens  to  a 

wave, 
A  full-leaved  prophecy  affecting  thee, 
Out  fairly  and  wide.     Henceforward 

arise,  aspire 
To  all  the  calms  and  magnanimities. 
The  lofty  iises  and  the  noble  ends. 
The  sanctified  devotion  and  full  work, 
To  which  thou  art  elect  forevermore. 
First  woman,  wife,  and  mother  ! 
Eve.  And  first  in  sin. 

Adam.  And  also  the  sole  V)earer  of 

the  Seed 
Whereby  sin  dieth.    Raise  the  majes- 
ties 
Of  thy  disconsolate  brows,  O   well- 
beloved, 


H^-ll-^H 


I 


206 


A    DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


And  front  with  level  eyelids  the  To 

come, 
And  all  the  dark  o'  the  world  !    Rise, 

woman,  rise 
To  thy  peculiar  and  best  altitudes 
Of  doing  good  and  of  enduring  ill, 
Of  comforting  for  ill,   and  teaching 

good, 
And  reconciling  all  that  ill  and  good 
Unto    the    patience    of    a    constant 

hope,  — 
Rise    with    thy    daughters !    If    sin 

came  by  thee. 
And  by  sin,  death,  the  ransom-right- 
eousness 
The  heavenly  life  and  compensative 

rest, 
Shall  come  by  means  of  thee.    If  woe 

by  thee 
Had  issue  to  the  world,  thou  shalt  go 

forth 
An    angel    of    the    woe    thou    didst 

achieve. 
Found  acceptable  to  the  world  instead 
Of    others  of    that  name,   of    whose 

bright  steps 
Thy  deed  stripped  bare  the  hills.    Be 

satisfied: 
Something  thou  hast  to  bear  through 

womanhood. 
Peculiar  suffering  answering  to  the 

sin,  — 
Some  pang  paid  down  for  each  new 

human  life, 
Some  weariness  in  guarding  such  a 

life. 
Some    coldness    from    the    guarded, 

some  mistrust 
From  those  thou  hast  too  well  served, 

from  those  beloved 
Too  loyally  some  treason ;  feebleness 
Within  thy  heart,  and  cruelty  with- 
out, 
And  pressures  of  an  alien  tyranny 
"With  its   dynastic  reasons  of  larger 

bones 
And    stronger   sinews.     But    go    to ! 

thy  love 
Shall  chant  itself  its  own  beatitudes 
After  its  own  life-working.    A  child's 

kiss 
Set  on  thy  sighing  lips  shall  make 

thee  glad; 
A  poor  man   served    by  thee   shall 

make  thee  rich; 
A  sick    man    helped    by  thee    shall 

make  thee  strong; 
Thou  shalt  be  served  thyself  by  every 

sense 


Of    service    which    thou    rendereat. 
Such  a  crown 

I    set  upon  thy  head,  —  Christ  wit- 
nessing 

With  looks  of  prompting  love,  —  to 
keep  thee  clear 

Of  all  reproach  against  the  sin  for- 
gone, 

From  all  the  generations  which  suc- 
ceed. 

Thy  hand  which  plucked  the  apple 
I  clasp  close; 

Thy  lips  which  spake  wrong  counsel 
I  kiss  close; 

I  bless  thee  in  the  name  of  Paradise 

And  by  the  memory  of  Edenic  joys 

Forfeit  and  lost, — by  that  last    cy- 
press-tree, 

Green  at  the  gate,  which  thrilled  as 
we  came  out ; 

And  by  the  blessed  nightingale  which 
threw 

Its  melancholy  music  after  us ; 

And  by  the  flowers,  whose  spirits  full 
of  smells 

Did  follow  softly,  plucking  us  behind 

Back  to  the  gradual  banks,  and  ver- 
nal bowers. 

And  fourfold    river-courses.    By  all 
these 

I  bless  thee  to  the  contraries  of  these ; 

I  bless  thee  to  the  desert  and  the 
thorns, 

To  the  elemental  change  and  turbu- 
lence, 

And  to   the  roar   of   the   estranged 
beasts. 

And  to  the  solemn  dignities  of  grief, 

To  each  one  of  these  ends,   and  to 
their  end 

Of  death  and  the  hereafter. 
Eve.  I  accept 

For  me  and  for  my  daughters  this 
high  part. 

Which  lowly  shall  be  counted.    No- 
ble work 

Shall  hold  me  in  the  place  of  garden 
rest. 

And,  in  the  place  of  Eden's  lost  de- 
light. 

Worthy  endurance  of  permitted  pain ; 

While  on  my  longest  patience  there 
shall  wait 

Death's  speechless  angel,  smiling  in 
the  east 

Whence    cometh    the    cold   wind.    I 
bow  myself 

Humbly  henceforward    on  the  ill  I 
did, 


i 

i 


A   DRAMA   OF  EXILE. 


That  bumbleness  may  keep  it  in  the 

shade. 
Shall  it  be  so  ?    Shall  I  smile,  saying 

so? 

0  Seed  !  O  King  !  O  God,  who  shalt 

be  seed, — 

What  shall  I  say  ?  As  Eden's  foun- 
tains swelled 

Brightly  betwixt  their  banks,  so 
swells  my  soul 

Betwixt  thy  love  and  power. 

And,  sweetest  thoughts 

Of  foregone  Eden,  now,  for  the  first 
time 

Since  God  said  "  Adam,"  walking 
through  the  trees, 

1  dare  to  pluck  you,  as  I  plucked  ere- 

while 

The  lily  or  pink,  the  rose  or  helio- 
trope. 

So  pluck  I  you  —  so  largely  —  with 
both  hands. 

And  throw  you  forward  on  the  outer 
earth 

Wherein  we  are  cast  out,  to  sweeten  it. 
Adam.  As  thou,  Christ,  to  illume  it, 
boldest  Heaven 

Broadly  over  our  heads 

[The  Christ  is  gradually  tranrfigiired, 
during  the  following  phrases  of  dia- 
logue, into  humanity  and  suffering. 

Eve.  O  Saviour  Christ, 

Thou  standest  mute  in  glory,  like  the 
sun  ! 
Adam.  We  worship  in  thy  silence. 

Saviour  Christ. 
Eve.  Thy  brows  grow  grander  with 
a  forecast  woe ; 
Diviner,  with  the  possible  of  death. 
We  worship  in  thy  sorrow,  Saviour 
Christ. 
Adam.  How  do  thy  clear  still  eyes 
transpierce  our  souls. 
As  gazing  through  them,  toward  the 

Father-throne 
In  a  pathetical,  full  Deity, 
Serenely  as  the  stars  gaze  through  the 

air 
Straight  on  each  other  ! 

Eve.  O  pathetic  Christ, 

Thou  standest  mute  in  glory,  like  the 

moon  ! 

Christ.  Eternity      stands      alway 

fronting  God; 

A  stern  colossal  image,   with  blind 

eyes, 
:^nd    grand    dim    lips    that  murmur 
evermore, 


God,  God,  God  !  while  the  rush  of  life 

and  death, 
The  roar  of  act  and  thought,  of  evil 

and  good. 
The  avalanches  of  the  ruining  worlds 
Tolling  down  space,  —  the  new  worlds' 

genesis 
Budding  in  fire,  —  the  gradual  hum- 
ming growth 
Of  the  ancient  atoms  and  first  forms 

of  earth. 
The  slow  procession  of  the  swathing 

seas 
And    firmamental   waters,    and    the 

noise 
Of  the  broad,   fluent  strata  of  pure 

airs, — 
All  these  flow  onward  in  the  intervals 
Of  that  reiterated  sound  of  —  God  ! 
Which     WORD     innumerous     angels 

straightway  lift 
Wide  on  celestial  altitudes  of  song 
And  choral  adoration,  and  then  drop 
The  burden  softly,  shutting  the  last 

notes 
In    silver    wings.    Howbeit,    in    the 

noon  of  time 
Eternity  shall  wax  as  dumb  as  death. 
While    a    new    voice    beneath    the 

spheres  shall  cry, 
"  God  !    Why  hast  thou  forsaken  me, 

my  God?" 
And  not  a  voice  in  heaven  shall  an- 
swer it. 

[  The  transfiguration  is  com- 
plete in  sadness. 

Adam.  Thy  speech  is  of  the  heaven- 
lies,  yet,  O  Christ, 

Awfully  human  are  thy  voice    and 
face  1 
Eve.  My  nature  overcomes  me  from 

thine  eyes. 
Christ.  In  the  set    noon  of    time 
shall  one  from  heaven. 

An   angel   fresh  from    looking  upon 
God, 

Descend   before    a   woman,  blessing 
her. 

With  perfect  benediction  of  pure  love. 

For  all  the  world  in  all  its  elements. 

For  all  the  creatures  of  earth,  air,  and 
sea. 

For  all  men  in  the  body  and  in  the 
soul. 

Unto  all  ends  of  glory  and  sanctity. 
Eve.  O  laale  pathetic  Christ,  I  wor- 
ship thee  ! 

I  thank  thee  for  that  woman  ! 


208 


A  DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


Christ.  Then  at  last, 

I,  wrapping  round  me  your  human- 
ity, 
Which,  being  sustained,  shall  neither 

break  nor  burn 
Beneath    the    fire  of    Godhead,   will 

tread  earth. 
And    ransom    you    and    it,    and    set 

strong  peace 
Betwixt  you  and  its  creatures.     With 

my  pangs 
I  will  confront  your  sins;  and,  since 

those  sins 
Have  sunken  to  all  Nature's    heart 

from  j'ours, 
The  tears  of  my  clean  soul  .shall  fol- 
low them, 
And  set  a  holy  passion  to  work  clear 
Absolute  consecration.    In  my  brow 
Of  kingly  whiteness  shall  be  crowned 

anew 
Your     discrowned     human      nature. 

Look  on  me  ! 
As  I  shall  be  uplifted  on  a  cross 
In   darkness   of  eclipse   and  anguish 

dread. 
So    shall    I    lift    up    in    my    pierced 

hands,  — 
Not  into  dark,  but  light;    not   unto 

death. 
But  life,  —  beyond  the  reach  of  guilt 

and  grief. 
The  whole  creation.    Henceforth  in 

my  name 
Take  courage,  O  thou  woman,  — man, 

take  hope  ! 
Your  grave  shall    be    as    smooth  as 

Eden's  sward 
Beneath  the  steps  of  your  prospective 

thoughts, 
And,   one  step  past  it,  a  new  Eden- 
gate 
Shall  open  on  a  hinge  of  harmony. 
And  let  you  through  to  niercv."    Ye 

shall  fall 
No  more  within  that  Eden,  nor  jiass 

out 
Any  more  from  it.     In  which  hope, 

move  on, 
First    sinners    and    lirst    mourners. 

Live  and  love, 
Doing  both  nobly,  because  lowlih-; 
Live  and  work,  strongly,  because  jja- 

tiently  ! 
And,  for  the  deed  of  death,  trust  it  to 

God 
That  it  be  well  done,  unrepented  of, 
And  not  to  loss.    And  thence  witli 

constant  prayers 


Fasten  your  souls  so  high,  that  con- 

tantly 
The  smile  of  your  heroic  cheer  may 

float 
Above  all  floods  of  earthly  agonies. 
Purification  being  the  joy  of  pain  I 

[  T/ie  vision  o/CuEisT  vanishes.  Adam 
and  Eve  stand  in  an  ecstasy.  The 
earth-zodiac  pales  away  shade  by 
shade,  as  the  stars,  star  by  star, 
shine  out  in  the  sky ;  and  the  fol- 
lowing chant  from  the  two  Earth- 
spirits  {as  they  sweejj  back  into  the 
zodiac,  and  disappear  icith  it)  ac- 
companies the  process  of  change. 

Earth-spirits. 

By  the  mighty  word  thus  spoken 

Both  for  living  and  for  dying. 
We  our  homage  oath,  once  broken. 
Fasten  back  again  in  sighing. 
And  the  creatures  and  the  elements 
renew  their  covenanting. 

Here  forgive  us  all  our  scorning; 
Here  we  promise  milder  duty; 
And  the  evening  and  the  morning 
Shall  re-organize  in  beautj- 
A  sabbath  day  of   sabbath  joy,   for 
imiversal  chanting. 

And  if,  still,  this  melancholy 

INIay  be  strong  to  overcome  us; 
If  this  mortal  and  unholy 
We  still  fail  to  cast  out  from  us ; 
If  we  turn  upon  you  unaware  your 
own  dark  influences; 

If  ye  tremble  when  surrounded 

By  our  forest  pine  and  palm  trees; 
If  we  cannot  cure  the  wounded 
With  our  gum-trees  and  our  balm- 
trees; 
And  if  your  souls  all  mournfully  sit 
down  among  your  senses,  — 

Yet,  O  mortals  do  not  fear  us  1 

We  are  gentle  in  our  languor; 
Much  more  good  ye  shall  have  nour 
us 
Than  any  pain  or  anger. 
And  our  God's  refracted  blessing  in 
our  blessing  shall  be  given. 

By  the  desert's  endless  vigil 

We  will  solemnize  your  passions; 
By  the  wheel  of  the  black  eagle 
We  will  teach  you  exaltations, 
When  he  sails  against  the  wind,  to 
the  white  spot  up  in  heaven. 


A   DRA.AfA    OF  EXILE. 


209 


Ye  shall  find  us  tender  nurses 

To  your  weariness  of  nature, 
And   our  hands    shall    stroke    the 
curse's 
Dreary  furrows  from  the  creature, 
Till  your  bodies  shall  lie  smooth  in 
death,  and  straight  and  slum- 
berful. 

Then  a  couch  we  will  provide  you 
Where   no    summer    heats    shall 
dazzle, 
Strewing  ou  you  and  beside  you 
Thyme  and  rosemary  and  basil, 
And  the  yew-tree  shall  grow   over- 
head to  keep  all  safe  and  cool. 

Till  the  Holy  Blood  awaited 
Shall  be  chrism   arouud  us  run- 
ning. 
Whereby,  newly  consecrated, 
We  shall  leap  up  in  God's  sun- 
ning, 
To  join  the  spheric   company  which 
purer  worlds  assemble; 

While,  renewed  by  new  evangels, 
Soul-consummated,    made    glori- 
ous. 
Ye  shall  brighten  past  the  angels. 
Ye  shall  kneel  to  Christ  victori- 
ous, 
And  the  rays  around  his  feet  beneath 
your  sobbing  lips  shall  trem- 
ble. 

[The  phantastic  vision  has  all  passed; 
the  earth-zodiac  has  broken  like  a 
belt,  and  is  dissolved  from  the  des- 
ert. The  Earth-spirits  vanish,  and 
the  stars  shine  out  above. 


CHORUS  OF  INVISIBLE  ANGELS, 

While  Adam   and  Eve  advance    into    the 
desert,  hand  in  hand. 

Hear  our  heavenly  promise 

Through  your  mortal  passion  1 
Love  ye  shall  have  from  us, 

In  a  pure  relation. 
As  a  fish  or  bird 

Swims  or  flies,  if  moving, 
We  unseen  are  heard 

To  live  on  by  loving. 
Far  above  the  glances 

Of  your  eager  eyes, 
Listen  !  we  are  loving. 
Listen,  through  man's  ignorances, 
Listen,  through  God's  mysteries. 


Listen,  down  the  heart  of  things,  — 
Ye  shall  hear  our  mystic  wings 
Murmurous  with  loving. 

Through  the  opal  door 

Listen  evermore 

How  we  live  by  loving  ! 
First  semichorvs. 
When  your  bodies  therefore 

Reach  the  grave,  their  goal, 
Softly  will  we  care  for 

Each  enfranchised  soul. 
Softly  and  unloathly, 

Through  the  door  of  opal, 

Toward  the  heavenly  people. 
Floated  on  a  minor  fine 
Into  the  full  chant  divine. 

We  will  draw  you  smoothly, 
While  the  human  in  the  minor 
Makes  the  harmony  diviner. 
Listen  to  our  loving  I 
Second  semichorus. 
There,  a  sough  of  glory 

Shall  breathe  on  you  as  you  come, 
Rutfling  round  the  doorway 

All  the  light  of  angeldom. 
From  the  empyrean  centre 

Heavenly  voices  shall  repeat, 
"  Souls,  redeemed  and  pardoned, 
enter. 

For  the  chrism  on  you  is  sweet." 
And  every  angel  in  the  place 
Lowlily  shall  bow  his  face, 

Folded  fair  on  softened  sounds, 
Because  upon  your  hands  and  feet 

He  images  his  Master's  wounds. 
Listen  to  our  loving  ! 
First  seinichoras. 
So,  in  the  universe's 

Consummated  undoing. 
Our  seraphs  of  white  mercies 

Shall  hover  round  the  ruin. 
Their  wings  shall  stream  upon  the 

flame 
As  if  incorporate  of  the  same 

In  elemental  fusion; 
And  calm  their  faces  shall  burn  out 
With  a  pale  and  mastering  thought, 
And  a  steadfast  looking  of  desire 
From  out  between  the  clefts  of  fire, 
While  they  cry,  in  the  Holy's  name, 

To  the  final  Restitution. 
Listen  to  our  loving  ! 
Second  semichorti.'i. 
So,  when  the  day  of  God  is 

■To  the  thick  graves  accompted, 
Awaking  the  dead  bodies, 

The  angel  of  the  trumpet 
Shall  split  and  shatter  the  earth 

To  the  roots  of  the  grave 


210 


A   DRAMA   OF  EXILE. 


Which  never  before  were  slackened, 

And  quicken  the  charnel  birth 
With  his  blast  so  clear  and  brave 
That    the    dead    shall  start,   and 
stand  erect, 
And  every  face  of  the  bnrial-place 
Shall  the  awful  single  look  reflect 
Wherewith  he  them  awakened. 
Listen  to  our  loving  ! 
First  semichorKs. 
But  wild  is  the  horse  of  Death. 
He  will  leap  up  wild  at  the  clamor 
Above  and  beneath. 
And  where  is  his  Tamer 
On  that  last  day. 
When  he  crieth.  Ha,  ha! 
To  the  trumpet's  blare, 
And  paweth  the  earth's  Aceldama  ? 
When  he  tosseth  his  head. 
The  drear-white  steed. 
And  ghastlily    chamjoeth    the    last 
moon-ray, 
What  angel  there 
Can  lead  him  away, 
That  the  living  may  rule  for  the 
dead? 
Second  semichorus. 
Yet  a  Tajvier  shall  be  found  ! 
One     more     bright     than      seraph 

crowned, 
And  more  strong  than  cherub  bold. 
Elder,  too,  than  angel  old, 
By  his  gray  eternities. 
He  shall  master  and  surprise 

The  steed  of  Death. 
For  he  is  strong,  and  he  is  fain: 
He  shall  quell  him  with  a  breath. 
And  shall  lead  him  where  he  will, 
With  a  whisper  in  the  ear, 

Full  of  fear, 
And  a  hand  upon  the  mane, 

Grand  and  still. 
First  semichorus. 
Through  the  flats  of  Hades,  where  the 

souls  assemble, 
He  will  guide  the  Death-steed  calm 

between  their  ranks, 
While,  like  beaten  dogs,  they  a  little 

moan  and  tremble 
To  see  the  darkness  curdle  from  the 

horse's  glittering  flanks. 
Through  the  flats  of  Hades,  where  the 

dreary  shade  is. 
Up  the  steep  of  heaven,  will  the  Tamer 

guide  the  steed,  — 
Up  the  spheric   circles,  circle  above 

circle, 
We  who  count  the  ages  shall  count 
the  tolling  tread ; 


Every    hoof-fall    striking    a    blinder, 

blanker  sparkle 
From  the  stony  orbs,  which  shall  show 

as  they  were  dead. 
Second  semichorus. 
All  the  way  the  Death-steed  with  toll- 
ing hoofs  shall  travel; 
Ashen  gray  the  planets  shall  be  mo- 
tionless as  stones; 
Loosely  shall  the  systems  eject  their 

parts  coeval ; 
Stagnant  in  the  spaces  shall  float  the 

pallid  moons: 
Suns  that  touch  their  apogees,  reeling 

from  their  level, 
Shall  run  back  on  their  axles  in  wild, 

low,  broken  tunes. 
Chorus. 
Up  against  the  arches  of  the  crystal 

ceiling, 
From  the  horse's  nostrils,  shall  steam 

the  blurting  breath ; 
Up  between  the  angels  pale  with  si- 
lent feeling, 
AVill  the  Tamer  calmly  lead  the  horse 

of  Death. 
Semi-chorus. 
Cleaving  all  that  silence,  cleaving  all 

that  glory, 
Will  the  Tamer  lead  him  straightway 

to  the  Throne ; 
"Look  out,  O  Jehovah,  to  this  I  bring 

before  thee. 
With  a  hand  nail-pierced,  —  I  who  am 

thy  Son." 
Then    the    Eye    Divinest,    from    the 

Deepest,  flaming. 
On  the  mystic  courser  shall  look  out 

in  fire: 
Blind  the  beast  shall  stagger  where  it 

overcame  him. 
Meek  as  lamb  at  pasture,  bloodless  in 

desire. 
Down  the  beast   shall    shiver,   slain 

amid  the  taming. 
And  by  Life  essential  the  phantasm 

Death  exjiire. 
Chorxis. 
Listen,     man,     through     life      and 

death, 
Through  the  dust  and  through  the 
breath ; 
Listen  down  the  heart  of  things  ! 
Ye  shall  hear  our  mystic  wings 

Murmurous  with  loving. 
A   Voice   from,  below.  Gabriel,   thou 

Gabriel ! 
A  Voice  from  above.  What  wouldst 

thou  with  me  ? 


i 


A   DRAMA    OF  EXILE. 


211 


First  Voice.  I  heard  thy  voice  sound 
in  the  angels'  song, 
And  I  would  give  thee  question. 
Second  Voice.  Question  me  ! 
First    Voice.  Why     have    I    called 
thrice  to  my  morning  star, 
And  had  no  answer  ?    All  the  stars 

are  out, 
Andanswerintheiri^laces.  Only  invain 
I  cast  my  voice  against  the  outer  rays 
Of  my  star  shut  in  light  behind  the  sun. 
No  more  reply  than  from  a  breaking 

string, 
Breaking  when  touched.     Or  is  she 

not  my  star  ? 
"Where  is   my  star,  my  star  ?    Have 

ye  cast  down 
Her  glory  like   my  glory  ?    Has  she 

waxed 
Mortal,  like  Adam  ?    Has  she  learnt 

to  hate 
Like  any  angel  ? 

Second  Voice.  She  is  sad  for  thee. 
All  things  grow  sadder  to  thee,  one 
by  one. 
Angel  Chorus. 
Live,  work  on,  O  Earthy  ! 
By  the  Actual's  tension 
Speed  the  arrow  worthy 

Of  a  pure  ascension ; 
From  the  low  earth  round  you 
Reach  the  heights  above  you; 
From  the  stripes  that  wound  you 

Seek  the  loves  that  love  you. 
God's  divinest  burnetii  plain 
Through  the  crystal  diaphane 
Of  our  loves  that  love  you. 
First  Voice.  Gabriel,  O  Gabriel ! 
Second    Voice.  What   wouldst    thou 

with  me  ? 
First  Voice.  Is  it  true,  O  thou  Ga- 
briel, that  the  crown 
Of  sorrow  which  I  claimed,  another 

claims  ? 
That  He  claims  that  too  ? 
Second  Voice.        Lost  one,  it  is  true. 
First  Voice.  That  He  will  be  an  ex- 
ile from  his  heaA^en 
To  lead  those  exiles  homeward  ? 
Second  Voice.  It  is  true. 

First  Voice.  That  He  will  be  an  ex- 
ile by  his  will. 
As  I  by  mine  election  ? 
Second  Voice.  It  is  true. 

First  Voice.  That  /  shall  stand  sole 
exile  finally,  — 
Made  desolate  for  fruition  ? 
Second  Voice.  It  is  true. 

First  Voice.  Gabriel ! 


Second  Voice.  I  hearken. 

First  Voice.  Is  it  true  besides. 

Aright    true,    that    mine   orient  star 

will  give 
Her  name  of  "  Bright  and   Morning 

Star  "to  Him, 
And  take  the  fairness  of  his  virtue  back 
To  cover  loss  and  sadness  ? 
Second  Voice.  It  is  true. 

First    Voice.  UNtrue,    UNtrue !      O 
Morning  Star,  O  Mine, 
Who  sittest  secret  in  a  veil  of  light 
Far  up  the  starry  spaces,  say  — Untrue.' 
Speak  but  so  loud  as  doth   a  wasted 

moon 
To  Tyrrhene  waters.     I  am  Lucifer. 

[A  pause.     Silence  in  the  stars. 
All  things  grow  sadder  to  me,  one  by 
one. 
Angel  Chorus 
Exiled  human  creatures. 

Let  your  hope  grow  larger, 
Larger  grows  the  vision 

Of  the  new  delight. 
From  this  chain  of  Nature's 

God  is  the  Discharger, 
And  the  Actual's  prison 

Opens  to  your  sight. 
Semichorus. 
Calm  the  stars  and  golden 

In  a  light  exceeding: 
What  their  rays  have  measured 

Let  your  feet  fulfil ! 
These  are  stars  beholden 
By  your  eyes  in  Eden; 
Yet  across  the  desert, 

See  them  shining  still  ! 
Chorus. 
Future  joy  and  far  light. 

Working  such  relations, 
Hear  us  singing  gently. 

Exiled  is  not  lost ! 
God,  above  the  starlight, 

God,  above  the  patience. 
Shall  at  last  j^resent  ye 

Guerdons  worth  the  cost. 
Patiently  enduring, 

Painfully  surrounded. 
Listen  how  we  love  you, 

Hope  the  uttermost ! 
Waiting  for  that  curing 

Which  exalts  the  wounded. 
Hear  us  sing  above  you  — 
Exiled,  but  not  lost  ! 

[The  stars  shine  on  brightly  ichile  Xdath 
and  Eve  ptirsue  their  way  into  the 
far  iDilderness.  There  is  a  souiid 
through  the  silence,  as  of  the  falling 
tears  of  an  angel. 


THE  SERAPHIM. 


"  I  look  for  Angels'  songs,  and  hear  Him  cry." 

GILES  FLETCHRB. 


PART   THE   FIRST. 

[It  is  the  time  of  the  crucifixion  ;  and 
the  angels  of  heaven  have  departed 
towards  the  earth,  except  the  two 
seraphim,  Ador  the  Strong,  and 
Zerah  the  Bright  One. 

The  place  is  the  outer  side  of  the  shut 
heavenly  gate.] 

Ador.  O  SERAPH,  pause  no  more  ! 
Beside  this  gate  of  heaven  we  stand 
alone. 
Zerah .  Of  heaven  ! 
Ador.  Our  brother-hosts  are  gone  — 
Zerah.  Are  gone  before. 
Ador.  And  the    golden    harps    the 
angels  bore, 
To  help  the  songs  of  their  desire. 
Still  burning  from  their  hands  of 

fire, 
Lie,  without  touch  or  tone, 
Upon  the  glass-sea  shore. 
Zerah.  Silent    upon    the    glass-sea 

shore ! 
Ador.  There  the  Shadow  from  the 
throne. 
Formless  with  infinity, 
Hovers  o'er  the  crystal  sea 

Awfuller  than  light  derived, 
And  red  with  those  primeval  heats 
Whereby  all  life  has  lived. 
Zerah.  Our  visible  God,  our  heav- 
enly seats  I 
Ador.  Beneath  us  sinks  the  pomp 
angelical. 
Cherub  and  seraph,  powers  and 
virtues,  all, 
The  roar  of  whose  descent  has 
died 
To  a  still  sound ,  as  thunder  into  rain. 
Immeasurable    space    spreads, 
magnified 
With  that  thick   life,    along  the 

plane 
The  worlds  slid  out  on.    What  a 
fall 
212 


And  eddy  of  wings  innumerous, 

crossed 
By  trailing  curls  that  have  not 

lost 
The    glitter  of    the    God-smile 

shed 
On  every  prostrate  angel's  head! 
What    gleaming-up    of    hands 

that  fling 
Their  homage  in  retorted  rays, 
From  high  instinct  of  worship- 

And  habitude  of  praise  ! 
Zerah.  Rapidly  they  drop  below  us. 
Pointed  palm,   and  wing,   and 

hair 
Indistinguishable,  show  us 
Only  pulses  in  the  air 
Throbbing  with  a  fiery  beat, 
As  if  a  new  creation  heard 
Some  divine  and  plastic  word. 
And,  trembling  at    its    new-found 
being, 
Awakened  at  our  feet. 
Ador.  Zerah,  do  not  wait  for  seeing  ! 
His  voice,  his,  that  thrills  us  so 
As  we  our  harpstrings,  uttered  60, 
Behold  the  Holy  in  his  looe  ! 
And  all  are  gone,  save  thee  and  — 
Zerah.  Thee ! 

Ador.  I  stood  the  nearest    to    the 
throne, 
In  hierarchical  degree. 
What  time  the  Voice  said  Go  ! 
And  whether  I  was  moved  alone 
By  the  storm-pathos  of  the  tone 
Which-   swept    through    heaven    the 
alien  name  of  woe, 
Or  whether  the  subtle  glory  broke 
Through  my  strong  and  shielding 

wings, 
Bearing  to  my  finite  essence 
Incapacious  of  their  presence. 
Infinite  imaginings, 
None  knoweth  save  the  Throned  who 
spoke; 


THE   SERAPHIM. 


213 


But  I,  who  at  creation  stood  upright, 
And  heard  the  God-breath  move 
Shaping    the  words    that    lightened, 
"Be  there  light," 
Nor  trembled  but  with  love, 
Now  fell  down  shudderingly, 
My  face  upon  the  pavement  whence  I 

had  towered. 
As  if  in  mine  immortal  overpowered 
By  God's  eternity. 
Zcrah.  Let  me  wait !  let  me  wait ! 
Ador.  Nay,     gaze     not     backward 
through  the  gate  ! 
God  fills  our  heaven  with  God's  own 
solitude 
Till  all  the  pavements  glow. 
His  Godhead  being  no  more  subdued 
By  itself,  to  glories  low 

Which  seraphs  can  sustain. 
What  if  thou,  in  gazing  so, 
Shouldst  behold  but  only  one 
Attribute,  the  veil  undone,  — 
Even  that  to  which  we  dare  to  press 
Nearest  for  its  gentleness,  — 

Ay,  his  love ! 
How  the  deep  ecstatic  pain 
Thy  being's  strength  would  capture ! 
Without  language  for  the  rapture. 
Without  music  strong  to  come 

And  set  the  adoration  free, 
For  ever,  ever,  wouldst  thou  be 
Amid  the  general  chorus  dumb, 
God-stricken  to  seraphic  agony. 
Or,  brother,  what  if  on  thine  eyes 
In  vision  bare  should  rise 
The   life-fount  whence  his  hand  did 
gather 
With  solitary  force 
Our  immortalities  I 
Straightway  how  thine    own  would 
wither. 
Falter  like  a  human  breath, 
And  shrink  into  a  point  like  death. 
By  gazing  on  its  source  I  — 
My  words  have  imaged  dread. 
Meekly  hast  thou  bent  thine  head. 
And  dropt  thy  wings  in  languish- 

ment 
Overclouding  foot  and  face, 
As  if  God's  throne  were  eminent 
Before  thee  in  the  place. 
Yet  not  —  not  so, 
O  loving  sjiirit  and  meek,  dost  thou 

fulfil 
The  supreme  Will. 
Not  for  obeisance,  but  obedience, 
Give  motion  to  tliy  wings  1    Depart 
from  hence  1 
The  Voice  said,  "  Go  ! 


Zerah.  Beloved,  I  depart. 
His  will  is  as  a  spirit  within  my  spirit, 
A  portion  of  the  being  I  inherit. 
His  will  is  mine  obedience.    I  resem- 
ble 
A  flame  all  undefilM,  though  it  trem- 
ble: 
I  go  and  tremble.  Love  me,  O  beloved  ! 

O  thou,  who  stronger  art. 
And  standest  ever  near  the  Infinite, 

Pale  with  the  light  of  Light, 
Love  me,  beloved  !  —  me,  more  newly 
made. 
More  feeble,  more  afraid. 
And  let  me  hear  with  mine  thy  pin- 
ions moved. 
As  close  and  gentle  as  the  loving  are, 
That,  love  being  near,   heaven  may 
not  seem  so  far. 
Ador.  I  am  near  thee,  and  I  love  thee. 
Were  I  loveless,  from  thee  gone. 
Love    is    roiind,    beneath,    above 

thee, 
God,  the  omnipresent  one. 
Spread  the  wing,  and  lift  the  brow! 
Well-beloved,  what  fearest  thou  ? 
Zerah.  I  fear,  I  fear  — 
Ador.  What  fear  ? 

Zerah.  The  fear  of  earth. 

Ador.  Of    earth,    the    God-created, 
and  God-praised 
In  the  hour  of  birth  ? 
Where  every  night  the  moon  in  light 
Doth  lead  the  waters  silver-faced  ? 

Where  every  day  tlie  sun  doth  lay 
A  rapture  to  the  heart  of  all 
The  leafy  and  reeded  pastoral. 
As  if  the  joyous  shout  which  burst 
From  angel  lips  to  see  him  first 
Had  left  a  silent  echo  in  his  ray  ? 
Zerah.  Of    earth,    the    God-created 
and  God-curst, 
Where  man  is,  and  the  thorn ; 
Where  sun  and  moon  have  borne 
No  light  to  souls  forlorn; 
Where  Eden's  tree  of  life  no  more 
uprears 
Its  spiral  leaves  and  fruitage,  but 

instead 
The  yew-tree  bows  its  melancholy 
head. 
And  all  the  undergrasses  kills  and 
sears. 
Ador.  Of  earth  the  weak. 
Made  and  unmade  ? 
Where  men  that  faint  do  strive  for 

crowns  that  fade  ? 
Where,  having  won  the  profit  which 
they  seek. 


214 


THE   SERAPHIM. 


They  lie  beside  the  sceptre  and  the 

gold 
"With    tleshless    hands    that    cannot 

wield  or  hold, 
And  the  stars  shine  in  their  unwink- 
ing eyes  ? 
Zerah.  Of  earth  the  bold, 
Where  the  blind  matter  wrings 
An  awful  potence  out  of  impotence. 
Bowing  the  spiritual  things 
To  the  things  of  sense ; 
Where  the  human  will  replies 
With  ay  and  no, 
Because  the  human  pulse  is  quick  or 

slow; 
Where  Love  succumbs  to  Change, 
With  only  his  own  memories,  for  re- 
venge. 
And  the  fearful  mystery  — 
Ador.  Called  Death  ? 

Zerah.  Nay,   death  is   fearful;    but 

who  saith 
"  To  die,"  is  comprehensible. 
What's  fearfuUer,  thou  knowest  well, 
Though  the  iitterance  be  not  for  thee, 
Lest  it  blanch  thy  lips  from  glory  — 
Ay  !  the  cursed  thing  that  moved 
A  shadow  of  ill,  long  time  ago, 
Across    our    heaven's    own    shining 

floor, 
And    when    it    vanished    some    who 

were 
On  thrones  of  holy  empire  there, 
Did  reign  —  were  seen  —  were  —  never 

more. 
Come  nearer,  O  teeloved  ! 
Ador.  I  am  near  thee.     Didst  thou 

bear  thee 
Ever  to  this  earth  ? 

Zerah.  Before. 

When  thrilling  from  his  hand  along 
Its  lustrous  path  with  spheric  song 
The  earth  was  deathless,  sorrowless. 
Unfearing,    then,    pure    feet    might 

press 
The    grasses   brightening  with  their 

feet. 
For    God's    own   voice    did    mix    its 

sound 
In  a  solemn  confluence  oft 
With  the  rivers'  flowing  round, 
And  the  life-tree's  waving  soft. 
Beautiful  new  earth  and  strange  ! 
Ador.  Hast  thou  seen  it  since  —  the 

change  ? 
Zerah.  Nay;  or  wherefore  should  I 

fear 
To  look  upon  it  now  ? 
I  have  beheld  the  ruined  things 


Only  in  depicturings 

Of  angels  from  an  earthly  mission. 

Strong  one,  even  upon  thy  brow, 

When,  with  task  completed,  given 

Back  to  us  in  that  transition, 

I  have  beheld  thee  silent  stand, 

Abstracted  in  the  seraph  band. 
Without  a  smile  in  heaven. 
Ador.  Then  thou  wast  not  one  of 
those 

Whom  the  loving  Father  chose 

In  visionary  pomp  to  sweep 

O'er  Judaea's  grassy  places. 

O'er  the  shepherds  and  the  sheep. 

Though    thou    art    so    tender,    dim- 
ming 

All  the  stars  excej)t  one  star 

With  their  brighter,  kindei  faces  ? 

And    using    heaven's    own    tune    in 
hymning, 

While  deep  response  from  earth's  own 
mountains  ran, 

"  Peace     upon     earth,    good-will    to 
man." 
Zerah.  "  Glory    to    God."     I    said 
amen  afar. 

And  those  who  fi"om  that  earthly  mis- 
sion are. 
Within  mine  ears  have  told 

That  the  seven  everlasting  Spirits  did 
hold 

With  such  a  sweet  and  prodigal  con- 
straint 

The  meaning  yet  the  mystery  of  the 
song 

What  time  they  sang  it,  on  their  na- 
tures strong, 

That,  gazing  down   on   earth's   dark 
steadfastness, 

And  speaking  the  new  i>eace  in  ]>rom- 
ises. 

The  love  and  pity  made  their  voices 
faint 

Into  the  low  and  tender  music,  keep- 
ing 

The  place  in  heaven  of  what  on  earth 
is  weeping. 
Ador.  Peace     upon     earth.      Come 

down  to  it. 
Zerah.  Ah  me ! 

I  hear  thereof  uncomprehendingly. 

Peace  where  the  tem^jest,  where  the 
sighing  is, 

And  worship  of   the  idol,   'stead  of 
His? 
Ador.  Yea,  peace,  where  He  is. 
Zerah.  He ! 

Say  it  again. 
Ador.  Where  He  is. 


THE  BERAPniM. 


215 


Zerah.  Can  it  be 

That  earth  retains  a  tree 
Whose  leaves  like  Eden  foliage  can 

be  swayed 
By  the  breathing  of  His  voice,  nor 
shrink  and  fade  ? 
Ado7\  There  is  a  tree  !  —  it  hath  no 
leaf  nor  root; 
Upon  it  hangs  a  curse  for  all  its  fruit: 
Its  shadow  on  His  head  is  laid. 
For  He,  the  crowned  Son, 
Has  left  his  crown  and  throne, 
Walks  earth  in  Adam's  clay, 
Eve's  snake  to  bruise  and  slay  — 
Zerah.  Walks  earth  in  clay  ? 
Ador.  And,    walking    in    the    clay 

which  he  created, 
He  through  it  shall  touch  death. 
What  do  I  utter  ?  what  conceive  ?  did 

breath 
Of  demon  howl  it  in  a  blasphemy  ? 
Or  was  it  mine  own  voice,  informed, 

dilated 
By  the  seven  confluent  Spirits  —  Speak 

—  answer  me  ! 
Who  said  man's  victim  was  his  deity  ? 
Zerah.  Beloved,  beloved,  the  word 
came  forth  from  thee. 
Thine  eyes  are  rolling  a  tempestuous 
light 
Above,  below,  around. 
As  putting  thunder  questions  without 
cloud, 
Reverberate  without  sound, 
To    universal    nature's    depth     and 

height. 
The  tremor  of  an  inexpressive  thought 
Too  self-amazed  to  shape  itself  aloud 
O'erruns  the  awful  curving  of  thy  lips ; 
And  while  thine  hands  are  stretched 
above, 
As  newly  they  had  caught 
Some  lightning  from  the  throne,  or 
showed  the  Lord 
Some  retributive  sword. 
Thy  brows    do    alternate  with   wild 

eclipse 
And  radiance,  with  contrasted  wrath 
and  love, 
As     God    had    called    thee    to    a 
seraph's  part. 
With  a  man's  quailing  heart. 
Ador.  O  heart,  O  heart  of  man! 
O  ta'eu  from  human  clay 
To  be  no  seraph's,  but  Jehovah's 
own! 
Made  holy  in  the  taking. 
And  yet  unseparate 
From  death's  perpetual  ban. 


And  human  feelings  sad  and  passion- 
ate; 

Still  subject  to  the  treacherous  for- 
saking 

Of  other  hearts,  and  its  own  steadfast 
pain. 

O  heart  of  man  —  of  God!  which  God 
has  ta'eu 

From  out  the  dust,  with  its  humanity 

Mournful    and   weak,    yet   innocent, 
around  it. 

And  bade  its    many  pulses    beating 
lie 

Beside  that  incommunicable  stir 

Of  Deity  wherewith  he  interwound  it. 

O  man  1  and  is  thy  nature  so  defiled 

That  all  that  holy  heart's  devout  law- 
keeping. 

And  low  pathetic  beat  in  deserts  wild. 

And  gushings  pitiful  of  tender  weep- 
ing 

For  traitors  who  consigned  it  to  such 
woe,  — 

That  all  could  cleanse  thee  not,  with- 
out the  flow 

Of  blood,  the    life-blood  —  7//s  —  and 
streaming  so  ? 

O  earth  the  thundercleft,  windshaken, 
where 

The    louder    voice    of    "  blood    and 
blood"  doth  rise, 

Hast  thou  an  altar  for  this  sacrifice  ? 
O  heaven  !   O  vacant  throne ! 

0  crowned  hierarchies  that  wear  your 

crown 
When  his  is  put  away  I 
Are  ye  unshamed  that  ye  cannot  dim 
Your  alien  brightness  to  be  liker  him, 
Assume  a  human  passion,  and  down- 
lay 
Your  sweet  secureness  for  congenial 

fears, 
And  teach  your  cloudless  ever-burn- 
ing eyes 
The  mystery  of  his  tears  ? 
Zerah.  I  am  strong,  I  am  strong. 
Were  I  never  to  see  my  heaven  again, 

1  would  wheel  to  earth  like  the  tem- 

pest rain 
Which  sweeps  there  with  an  exultant 

sound 
To    lose    its    life    as    it    reaches    the 

ground. 
I  am  strong,  I  am  strong. 
Away  from  mine  inward  vision  swim 
The  shining   seats    of    my    heaveulv 

birth, 
I  see  but  his,  I  see  but  him  — 
The  Maker's  steps  on  his  cruel  earth. 


21G 


THE   SEEAPHJAf. 


Will  the  Litter  herbs  of  earth  grow 

sweet 
To  me,  as  trodden  by  his  feet  ? 
Will  the  vexed  accurst  humanity, 
As  worn  by  him,  begin  to  be 
A  blessed,  yea,  a  sacred  thing, 
For  love  and  awe  and  ministering  ? 

I  am  strong,  I  am  strong. 
By  our  angel  ken  shall  we  survey 
His  loving  smile  throiigh  his  woful 
clay? 
I  am  swift,  I  am  strong, 
The  love  is  bearing  me  along. 
Ador.  One  love  is  bearing  us  along. 


PART   THE   SECOND. 

[Mid-air,  above  Judma.  Ador  and  Ze- 
RAU  are  a  little  apart  from  the  visi- 
ble angelic  hosts.] 

Ador.  Beloved,  dost  thou  see  ? 
Zerah.  Thee  —  thee. 

Thy  burning  eyes  already  are 
Grown  wild  and  mournful  as  a 

star 
Whose  occupation  is  for  aye 
To  look  upon  the  place  of  clay 

Whereon  thou  lookest  now. 
Thy  crown  is  fainting  on  thy  brow 
To  the  likeness  of  a  cloud. 
The  forehead's  self  a  little  bowed 
From  its  aspect  high  and  holy. 
As  it  would  in  meekness  meet 
Some  seraphic  melancholy: 
Thy  very  wings  that  lately  flung 
An  outline  clear  do  flicker  here 
And  wear  to  each  a  shadow  hung, 

Dropped  across  thy  feet. 
In     these     strange     contrasting 

glooms 
Stagnant  with  the  scent  of  tombs. 
Seraph  faces,  O  my  brother, 
Show  awfully  to  one  another. 
Ador.  Dost  thou  see  ? 
Zerah,  Even  so:  I  see 

Our  empyreal  company. 
Alone  the  memory  of  their  bright- 
ness 
Left  in  them,  as  in  thee. 
The  circle  upon  circle,  tier  on  tier, 
Piling  earth's  hemisphere 
With  heavenly  infiniteness, 
Above  us  and  around, 
Straining    the  whole  horizon   like  a 
bow: 


Their  songful  lips  divorced  from  all 

sound, 
A  darkness  gliding  down  their  silvery 

glances. 
Bowing  their  steadfast  solemn  counte- 
nances 
As  if  they  heard  God  speak,  and  could 
not  glow. 
Ador.  Look  downward  !  dost  thou 

see  ? 
Zerah.  And  wouldst  thou  press  that 
vision  on  my  words  ? 
Doth  not  earth  speak  enough 
Of  change  and  of  undoing, 
Without  a  seraph's  witness  ?    Oceans 

rough 
With  tempest,  pastoral  swards 
Displaced  by  fiery  deserts,  mountains 

ruing 
The  bolt  fallen  yesterday. 
That  shake  their  piny  heads,  as  who 

would  say 
"  We    are  too  beautiful   for  our  de- 
cay "— 
Shall  seraphs  speak  of  these  things  ? 
Let  alone 
Earth  to  her  earthly  moan  ! 
Voice  of  all  things.  Is  there  no  moan 

but  hers  ? 
Ador.  Hearest  thou  the  attestation 
Of  the  roused  universe 
Like  a  desert  lion  shaking 
Dews  of  silence  from  its  mane  ? 
With  an  irrepressive  passion 

Uprising  at  once, 
Rising  up  and  forsaking 
Its  solemn  state  in  the  circle  of  suns. 

To  attest  the  jiain 
Of    him    who    stands     (O    patience 

sweet !) 
In  his  own  handprints  of  creation, 
With  human  feet  ? 
Voice    of  all    things.    Is    there    no 

moan  but  ours  ? 
Zerah.  Forms,      Spaces,      Motions 

wide, 
O  meek,  insensate  things, 
O  congregated  matters  !  who  inherit 
Instead  of  vital  powers, 
Impulsions  God-supplied; 
Instead  of  influent  spirit, 
A  clear  informing  beauty; 
Instead  of  creature-duty 
Submission  calm  as  rest. 
Lights,  without  feet  or  wings. 
In  golden  courses  sliding  ! 
Glooms,  stagnantly  subsiding. 
Whose  lustrous  heart  away  was  prest 
Into  the  argent  stars  1 


THE   SERAPHIM. 


217 


Ye  crystal,  firmamental  bars 
That  hold  the  skyey  waters  free 
From  tide  or  tempest's  ecstasy  ! 
Airs  universal !  thunders  lorn 
That  wait  your  lightnings  in  cloud- 
cave 
Hewn  out  by  the  winds  !     O  brave 
And  subtle  elements  !  the  Holy 
Hath    charged    me   by  your  voice 
with  folly. 1 
Enough,  the  mystic  arrow  leaves  its 

wound. 
Return  ye  to  your  silences  inborn. 
Or  to  your  inarticulated  sound. 
Ador.  Zerah! 
Zerah.  Wilt  thou  rebuke  ? 
God  hath  rebuked  me,  brother.     I  am 
weak. 
Ador.  Zerah,    my    brother    Zerah ! 
could  I  speak 
Of  thee,  'twould  be  of  love  to  thee. 

Zemh.  Thy  look 

Is  fixed  on  earth,  as  mine  upon  thy 

face. 
Where  shall  I  seek  His  ? 

I  have  thrown 
One  look  upon  earth,  but  one. 
Over  the  blue  mountain  lines, 
Over  the  forests  of  palms  and  pines, 
Over  the  harvest-lands  golden, 
Over  the  vallej's  that  fold  in 
The  gardens  and  vines  — 

He  is  not  there. 
All  these  are  unworthy 
Those  footsteps  to  bear, 
Before  which,  bowing  down 
I  would  fain  quench  the  stars  of  my 
crown 
In  the  dark  of  the  earthy. 
Where  shall  I  seek  him  ? 

No  reply  ? 
Hath  language  left  thy  lips,  to  place 

Its  vocal  in  thine  eye  ? 
Ador,  Ador  !  are  we  come 
To  a  double  portent,  that 
Dumb  matter  grows  articulate, 
And  songful  seraphs  dumb  ? 
Ador,  Ador ! 

Ador.  I  constrain 

The  passion  of  my  silence.     None 
Of  those  places  gazed  upon 
Are  gloomy  enow  to  fit  his  pain. 
Unto  Him  whose  forming  word 
Gave  to  nature  flower  and  sward. 
She  hath  given  back  again 
For  the  myrtle,  the  thorn. 
For  the  sylvan  calm,  the  human  scorn. 
1  "His  angels  he  charged  with  folly."  — 
Job  iv.  18. 


Still,  still,  reluctant  seraph,  gaze  be- 
neath ! 
There  is  a  city  — 

Zerah.  Temple  and  tower. 

Palace  and  purple,  would  droop  like  a 
flower, 
(Or  a  cloud  at  our  breath) 
If  He  neared  in  his  state 
The  outermost  gate. 
Ador.  Ah  me,  not  so 

In  the  state  of  a  king  did  the  victim 

go! 
And    Thou    who    hangest    mute    of 
speech 
'Twixt  heaven  and  earth,  with  fore- 
head yet 
Stained  by  the  bloody  sweat, 
God  !    man  !    thou  hast  forgone  thy 
throne  in  each. 
Zerah.  Thine  eyes  behold  him  ! 
Ador.  Yea,  below. 

Track  the  gazing  of  mine  eyes, 
Naming  God  within  thine  heart 
That  its  weakness  may  depart. 

And  the  vision  rise  ! 
Seest  thou  yet,  beloved  ? 
Zerah.  I  see 

Beyond  the  city,  crosses  three. 
And  mortals  three  that  hang  there- 
on 
'Ghast  and  silent  to  the  sun. 
Round  them    blacken    and   welter 

and  press 
Staring  multitudes  whose  father 
Adam  was,  whose  brows  are  dark 
With  his  Cain's  corroded  mark. 
Who    curse  with  looks.    Nay  —  let 

me  rather 
Turn  unto  the  wilderness  ! 
Ador.  Turn  not !     God  dwells  with 

men. 
Zerah.  Above 

He  dwells  with  angels,  and  they  love. 
Can  these  love  ?    With  the   living's 

pride 
They  stare    at  those  who   die,   who 

hang 
In  their  sight  and  die.    They  bear 

the  streak 
Of    the    crosses'   shadow,   black    not 

wide, 
To  fall  on  their  heads,  as  it  swerves 
aside 
When  the  victims'  pang 
Makes  the  dry  wood  creak. 
Ador.  The  cross  — the  cross  ! 
Zerah.  A  woman  kneels 

The  mid  cross  under. 
With  white  lips  asunder, 


218 


THE   SERAPHIM. 


And  motion  on  each. 
They  throb  as  she  feels, 
With  a  spasm,  not  a  speech; 
And  her  lids,  close  as  sleep. 
Are  less  calm,  for  the  eyes 
Have  made  room  there  to  weep 
Drop  on  drop  — 
Ador.  Weep?    Weep  blood, 

All  women,  all  men  ! 
He  sweated  it,  He, 
For  yonr  pale  womanhood 
And  base  manhood.    Agree 
That  these  water-tears,  then, 
Are  vain,  mocking  like  laugh- 
ter. 
Weep  blood  !     Shall  the  flood 
Of    salt  curses,  whose  foam    is    the 

darkness,  on  roll 
Forward,  on  from  the  strand  of  the 

storm-beaten  years, 
And  back  from  the  rocks  of  the  hor- 
rid hereafter. 
And  up  in  a  coil  from  the   present's 

wrath-spring, 
Yea,    down    from    the    windows    of 

heaven  opening. 
Deep  calling  to  deep  as  they  meet  on 
His  soul  — 
And  men  weep  only  tears  ? 
Zerah.  Little  drops  in  the  lapse  ! 
And  yet,  Ador,  perhaps 
It  is  all  that  they  can. 
Tears  !  the  lovingest  man 
Has  no  better  bestowed 
Upon  man. 
Ador.  Nor  on  God. 

Zerah.         Do  all-givers  need  gifts  ? 
If  the  Giver  said   "Give,"  the  first 

motion  would  slay 
Our  Immortals,  the  echo  would  ruin 

away 
The    same  worlds   which    he    made. 
Why,  what  angel  uplifts 
Such  a  music,  so  clear, 
It  may  seem  in  God's  ear 
Worth  more  than  a  woman's  hoarse 

weeping  ?    And  thus, 
Pity  tender  as  tears    I    above    thee 

would  speak, 
Thou  woman  that  wee  pest !  weep  uu- 

scorned  of  us  ! 
I,  the  tearless  and  pure,  am  but  loving 
and  weak. 
Ador.  Speak  low,  my  brother,  low, 
—  and  not  of  love 
Or  human  or  angelic  !    Rather  stand 
Before  the  throne  of  that  Supreme 

above. 
In  whose  infinitude  the  secrecies 


Of  thine  own  being  lie  hid,  and  lift 

thine  hand 
Exultant,  saying,  "  Lord  God,  I  am 

wise  !  " 
Than  utter  here,  "  I  love." 

Zerah.  And  yet  thine  eyes 

Do    utter  it.    They  melt    in    tender 

light,  — 
The  tears  of  heaven. 
Ador.  Of  heaven.    Ah,  me  ! 

Zerah.  Ador ! 
Ador.        Say  on  ! 

Zerah,  The  crucified  are  three. 

Beloved,  they  are  unlike. 
Ador.  Unlike. 

Zerah.  For  one 

Is  as  a  man  who  has  sinned,  and 

still 
Doth  wear  the  wicked  will, 
The  hard,  malign  life-energy. 
Tossed  outward,  in  the  parting  soul's 

disdain, 
On  brow  and  lip  that  cannot  change 
again. 
Ador.  And  one  — 

Zerah.  Has  also  sinned. 

And  yet  (O  marvel !)  doth  the  Spirit- 
wind 
Blow    white    those    waters  ?    Death 
upon  his  face 
Is  rather  shine  than  shade,  — 
A    tender    shine   by  looks    beloved 

made: 
He  seemeth  dying  in  a  quiet  place. 
And   less  by  iron  wounds  in  hands 

and  feet 
Than  heart-broke  by  new  joy  too  sud- 
den and  sweet. 
Ador.  And  one  !  — 
Zerah.         And  one  !  — 
Ador.  Whv  dost  thou  pause  ? 

Zerah.  God  !  God  ! 

Spirit  of  my  spirit !  who  movest 
Through    seraph    veins    in    burning 

deity 
To  light  the  quenchless  pulses  !  — 

Ador.  But  hast  trod 

The  depths  of  love  in  thy  peculiar 

nature. 
And  not  in  any  thou  hast  made  and 

lovest 
In  narrow  seraph  hearts  !  — 

Zerah.  Above,  Creator  ! 

Within,  Upholder  ! 

Ador.  And  below,  below, 

The  creature's  and    the    upholden's 
sacrifice  ! 
Zerah.  Why  do  I  pause  ? 
Ador.  There  is  a  silentness 


THE   SERAPHIM. 


219 


That  answers  thee  enow, 

That,  like  a  brazen  sound 

Excluding  others,  doth  ensheathe  us 

round : 
Hear  it.    It  is  not  from  the  visible 
skies, 
Though  they  are  still. 
Unconscious  that  their  own  dropped 

dews  express 
The  light  of  heaven  on  everv  earthly 

hill. 
It  is  not  from  the  hills,  though  calm 
and  bare 
They,  since  their  first  creation. 
Through  midnight  cloud  or  morning's 

glittering  air. 
Or  the  deep  deluge  blindness,  toward 

the  place 
Whence  thrilled   the   mystic  word's 
creative  grace, 
And  whence  again  shall  come 
The  word  that  uncreates, 
Have  lift  their  brows  in  voiceless  ex- 
pectation. 
It    is    not  from  the  places  that  en- 
tomb 
Man's  dead,  though  common  Silence 

there  dilates 
Her  soul  to  grand  proportions,  wor- 
thily 
To  fill  life's  vacant  room. 
Not  there  —  not  there. 
Not  vet  within  those  chambers  lieth 

He, 
A  dead  one  in  hi.s  living  world;  his 

south 
And  west  winds  blowing  over  earth 

and  sea, 
And   not  a  breath   on   that  creating 
mouth. 
But  now  a  silence  kee]is 
(Not  death's,  nor  sleep's) 
The  lips  whose  whispered  word 
Might  roll  the  thunders  round  rever- 
berated. 
Silent  art  thou,  O  my  Lord, 
Bowing  down  thy  stricken  head  ! 
Fearest  thou  a  groan  of  thine 
Would  make  the  jnilse  of  thy  crea- 
tion fail 
As  thine  own   pulse?  —  would    rend 

the  veil 
Of  visible  things,  and  let  the  Hood 
Of    the    unseen   Light,   the  essential 

God, 
Rush  in  to  whelm  the  undivine  ? 
Thy  silence,   to    my  thinking,   is   as 
dread. 
Zerah.  O  silence  ! 


Ad07-.  Doth  it  say  to  thee 

—  the  NAME, 

Slow-learning  seraph  ? 
Zerah.  I  have  learnt. 

Ador.  The  flame 

Perishes  in  thine  eyes. 

Zerah.  He  opened  his, 

And  looked.     I  cannot  bear  — 
Ador.  Their  agony  ? 

Zerah.  Their  love.     God's  depth"  is 
in  them.     From  his  brows 
White,    terrible    in    meekness,   didst 
thou  see 
The  lifted  eyes  unclose  ? 
He  is  God,  seraph  !     Look  no  more  on 

me, 
O  God  —  I  am  not  God. 

Ador.  The  loving  is 

Sublimed  within  them  bv  the  sorrow- 
ful. 
In  heaven  we  could  sustain  them. 

Zerah.  Heaven  is  dull, 

Mine    Ador,    to    man's    earth.     The 
light  that  burns 
In  fluent,  refluent  motion 
Along  the  crystal  ocean ; 
The  springing  of  the  golden  harps  be- 
tween 
The   bowery  wings,   in  fountains  of 

sweet  sound; 
The  winding,  wandering  music  that 

returns 
Upon  itself,  exultingly  self-bound 
In  the  great  spheric  round 
Of  everlasting  praises ; 
The  God-thoughts  in  our  midst  that 

intervene, 
Visibly    flashing    from    the    supreme 
throne 
Full  in  seraphic  faces 
Till  each  astonishes  the  other,  grown 
More  Ijeautiful  with  worship  and  de- 

liglit  — 
My  heaven  !  my  home  of  heaven  !  my 

infinite 
Heaven  choirs  !  what  are   ye  to  this 

dust  and  death, 
This  cloud,  this  cold,  these  tears,  this 

failing  breath, 
Where  God's  immortal  love  now  is- 
sueth 
In  this  man's  woe  ? 
Ador.  His  eyes  are  very  deep,  yet 

calm. 
Zerah.  No  more 

On  me,  Jehovah-man  — 

Ador.  Calm-deep.    They  show 

A  passion   which  is   tranquil.    They 
are  seeing 


I 


220 


THE   SERAPHIM. 


No  earth,   no  heaven,   no  men   that 

slay  and  curse, 
No  seraphs  that  adore ; 
Their  gaze  is  on    the  invisible,  the 

dread. 
The  things  we  cannot  view  or  think 

or  speak, 
Because  we  are    too    happy,   or  too 

weak,  — 
The  sea  of  ill  for  which  the  universe 
With  all  its  piled  space,  can  find  no 

shore. 
With  all  its  life    no    living    foot   to 

tread. 
But    he,    accomplished    in    Jehovah- 
being, 
Sustains  the  gaze  adown. 
Conceives  the  vast  despair. 
And  feels  the  billowy  griefs  come  up 

to  drown, 
Nor  fears,  nor  faints,  nor  fails,  till  all 

be  finished. 
Zerah.  Thus,  do  I  fiud  Thee  thus? 

My  undiminished 
And  undiminishable  God!  —  my  God! 
The  echoes  are  still  tremulous  along 
The  heavenly  mountains,  of  the  latest 

song 
Thy  manifested  glory  swept  abroad 
In  rushing  past  our  lips:   they  echo 

aye 
"  Creator,  thou  art  strong  ! 
Creator,  thou  art  blessed  over  all." 
By  what  new  utterance  shall  I  now 

recall, 
Unteaching  the  heaven-echoes?  dare 

I  say, 
"  Creator,  thou  art  feebler  than  thy 

work  ! 
Creator,   thou    art    sadder  than    thy 

creature  ! 
A  worm,  and  not  a  man. 
Yea,  no  worm,  but  a  curse  "  ? 
I  dare  not  so  mine  heavenly  phrase 

reverse. 
Albeit  the  piercing  thorn  and  thistle- 
fork 
(Whose  seed  disordered  ran 
From  Eve's  hand  trembling  when  the 

curse  did  reach  her) 
Be  garnered  darklier  in  thy  soul,  the 

rod 
That  smites  thee  never  blossoming, 

and  thou 
Grief-bearer  for  thy  world,  with  un- 
kinged brow  — 
I  leave  to  men  their  song  of  Ichabod: 
I  have  an  angel-tongue  —  I  know  but 

praise. 


Ador.  Hereafter    shall    the    blood- 
bought  captives  raise 
The  passion-song  of  blood. 

Zerah.  And  we,  extend 

Our  holy  vacant  hands  towards  the 

throne. 
Crying,  "  We  have  no  music." 
Ador.  Rather,  blend 

Both  musics  into  one. 
The  sanctities  and  sanctified  above 
Shall  each  to  each,  with  lifted  looks 
serene, 
Their  shining  faces  lean, 
And  mix  the  adoring  breath. 
And  breathe  the  full  thanksgiving. 

Zerah.  But  the  love  — 

The  love,  mine  Ador  ! 
Ador.  Do  we  love  not  ? 

Zerah.  Yea, 

But  not  as  man  shall !   not  with  life 

for  death. 
New-throbbing  through   the  startled 

being;  not 
With  strange  astonished  smiles,  that 

ever  may 
Gush  passionate,  like  tears,  and  fill 

their  place; 
Nor  yet  with  speechless  memories  of 

what 
Earth's  winters  were,  enverduring  the 
green 
Of  every  heavenly  palm 
Whose  windless,  shadeless  calm 
Moves  only  at  the  breath  of  the  Un- 
seen. 
Oh,  not  with  this  blood  on  us,  and 

this  face. 
Still,  haply,  pale  with  sorrow  that  it 

bore 
In  our  behalf,  and  tender  evermore, 
Witli  nature  all  our  own,  upon   us 

gazing, 
Nor  yet  with  these   forgiving  hands 

upraising 
Their  unreproachful  wounds,  alone  to 

bless  ! 
Alas,  Creator  !  shall  we  love  thee  less 
Than  mortals  shall  ? 

Ador.  Amen  I  so  let  it  be. 

We    love    in    our   proportion  to  the 

bound 
Thine  infinite  our  finite  set  around. 
And  that  is  finitely,  thou  infinite, 
And  worthy  infinite  love  !    And  our 

delight 
Is  watching  the  dear  love  poured  out 

to  thee 
From    ever  fuller  chalice.      Blessed 
they, 


THE   SERAPHIM. 


221 


Who  love  tliee  more  than   we    do : 

blessed  we, 
Viewing  that  love  which  shall  exceed 

even  this, 
And  winning  in  the  sight  a  double 

bliss 
For  all  so  lost  in  love's  supremacy. 
The  bliss  is  better.    Only  on  the  sad 

Cold  earth  there  are  who  say 
It  seemeth  better  to   be  great  than 

glad. 
The  bliss  is  better.    Love  him  more, 
O  man, 
Than  sinless  seraphs  can  ! 
Zerah.  Yea,  love  him  more  ! 
Voices  of  the  angelic  multitude.  Yea, 

more  ! 
Ador.  The  loving  word 

Is  caught  by  those   from  whom  we 

stand  apart; 
For  silence  hath  no  deepness  in  her 

heart 
AVhere  love's  low  name  low  breathed 

would  not  be  heard 
By  angels,  clear  as  thunder. 
Angelic  Voices.       Love  him  more. 
Ador.  Sweet  voices,  swooning  o'er 
The  music  which  ye  make  ! 
Albeit  to  love  there  were  not  ever 

given 
A  mournful  sound  when  uttered  out 

of  heaven. 
That    angel-sadness    ye   would   fitly 

take. 
Of    love  be  silent    now  !     We    gaze 

adown 
Upon  the  incarnate  Love  who  wears 
no  crown. 
Zerah.  No  crown  !  the  woe  instead 
Is  heavy  on  his  head, 
Pressing  inward  on  his  brain 
With  a  hot  and  clinging  pain 
Till  all  tears  are  prest  away, 
And  clear  and  calm  his  vision  may 
Peruse  the  black  abyss. 
No  rod,  no  sceptre,  is 
Holden  in  his  fingers  pale: 
They  close  instead  upon  the  nail. 

Concealing  the  sharp  dole, 
Never  stirring  to  put  by 

The  fair  hair  jjeaked  with  blood, 
Drooping  forward  from  the  rood 

Helplessly,  heavily. 
On  the  cheek  that  waxeth  colder, 
Whiter  ever,  and  the  shoulder 
Where  the  government  was  laid. 
His  glory  made  the  heavens  afraid : 
Will  he  not  unearth  this  cross  from 
its  hole  ? 


His  pity  makes  his  piteous  state; 
Will  he  be  uncompassionate 
Alone  to  his  proper  soul  ? 
Yea,  will  he  not  lift  up 
His  lips  from  the  bitter  cup, 
His  brows  from  the  dreary  weight, 
His  hand  from  the  clinching  cross, 
Crying,  "  My  Father,  give  to  me 
Again  the  joy  I  had  with  thee 
Or  ere    this    earth    was    made  for 
loss"? 
No  stir  —  no  sound. 
The  love  and  woe  being  interwound, 

He  cleaveth  to  the  woe. 
And  putteth  forth  heaven's  strength 
below  — 

To  bear. 
Ador.  And  that  creates  his  anguish 
now, 
Which  made  his  glory  there. 
Zerah.  Shall  it  need  be  so  ? 

Awake,  thou  Earth!  behold, — 
Thou,  uttered  forth  of  old 
In  all  thy  life-emotion. 
In  all  thy  vernal  noises; 
In  the  rollings  of  thine  ocean, 
Leaping  founts,  and  rivers  run- 
ning. 
In  thy  woods'  prophetic  heaving 
Ere    the  rains    a    stroke    have 

given; 
In  thy  winds'  exultant  voices 
When  they  feel  the  hills  anear; 
In  the  firmamental  sunning. 
And  the  tempest  which  rejoices 
Thy  full  heart  with  an  awful  cheer  ! 

"Thou,  uttered  forth  of  old. 

And  Mith  all  thy  music  rolled 

In  a  breath  abroad 

By  the  breathing  God  ! 

Awake  !    He  is  here  !  behold  ! 

Even  thou  — 

Beseems  it  good 
To  thy  vacant  vision  dim. 
That  the  deadly  ruin  should 
For  thy  sake  encompass  him  ? 
That  the  Master-word  should  lie 
A  mere  silence,  while  his  own 

Processive  harmony. 
The  faintest  echo  of  his  lightest  tone, 
Is  sweeping  in  a  choral  triumph  by  ? 
Awake  !  emit  a  cry  ! 
And  say,  albeit  used 
From  Adam's  ancient  years 
To  falls  of  acrid  tears. 
To  frequent  sighs  unloosed, 
Caught  back  to  press  again 
On  bosoms  zoned  with  pain,  — 
To  corses  still  and  sullen 


<> 


222 


THE   SERAPHIM. 


The  shine  and  music  dulling 

To  that  Atoner  making  calm  and  free? 

"With  closed  eyes  and  ears 

Am  I  a  God  as  he. 

That  nothing  sweet  can  enter. 

To  lay  down  peace  and  power  as  will- 

Commoving thee  no  less 

ingly  ? 

With  that  forced  quietness 

Ador.  He  looked  for  some  to  pity: 

Than  the  earthquake  in  thy  cen- 

there is  none. 

tre— 

All   pity  is  within  him,  and  not  for 

Thou  hast  not  learnt  to  bear 

him. 

This  new  divine  despair  ! 

His  earth  is  iron  under  him,  and  o'er 

These  tears  that  sink  into  thee, 

him 

These  dying  eyes  that  view  thee, 

His  skies  are  brass. 

This  dropping  blood  from  lifted 

His  seraphs  cry,  "  Alas  !  " 

rood. 

With    hallelujah   voice    that    cannot 

They  darken  and  undo  thee. 

weep. 

Thou  canst  not    presently  sustain 

And    man,   for  whom    the    dreadful 

this  corse  — 

work  is  done  .  .  . 

Cry,  cry,  thou  hast  not  force  ! 

Scornful    Voices  from  the  Earth.  If 

Cry,  thou  wouldst  fainer  keep 

verily  this  be  the  Eternal's 

Thy  hopeless  charnels  deep, 

son  — 

Thyself  a  general  tomb 

Ador.  Thou  hearest.    Man  is  grate- 

Where the  first  and  the  second 

ful. 

Death 

Zerah.             Can  I  hear, 

Sit  gazing  face  to  face, 

Nor  darken  into  man,  and  cease  for- 

And mar  each  other's  breath. 

ever 

While  silent  bones  through  all  the 

My  seraph  smile  to  wear  ? 

place 

Was  it  for  such 

'Neath  sun  and    moon    do   faintly 

It  pleased  liim  to  overleap 

glisten, 

His  glory  with  his  love,  and  sever 

And  seem  to  lie  and  listen 

From     the     God-light    and     the 

For  the  tramp  of  the  coming  Doom. 

throne. 

Is  it  not  meet 

And  all  angels  bowing  down. 

That  they  who  erst  the  Eden  fruit 

From  whom  his  every  look  did 

did  eat 

touch 

Should  champ  the  ashes  ? 

New  notes  of  joy  on  the  unworn 

That  they  who  wrap  them  in   the 

string 

thunder-cloud 

Of  an  eternal  worshipping  ? 

Should  wear  it  as  a  shroud, 

For  such  he  left  his  heaven  ? 

Perishing  by  its  flashes  ? 

There,  though  never  bought  by 

That  they  who  vexed  the  lion  should 

blood 

be  rent  ? 

And  tears,  we  gave  him  gratitude : 

Cry,  cry,  "  I  will  sustain  my  pun- 

We loved  him  there,  though  un- 

ishment, 

forgiven. 

The  sin  being  mine,  but  take  away 

Ador.         The  light  is  riven 

from  me 

Above,  around. 

This    visioned    dread  —  this  Man  — 

And  down  in  lurid  fragments  flung. 

this  Deity  !  " 

That  catch  the  mountain-peak   and 

The  Earth.  I  halve  groaned;  I  have 

stream 

travailed:  I  am  weary. 

With  momentary  gleam, 

I  am  blind  with  my  own  grief,  and 

Then  perish  in   the  water  and    tlie 

cannot  see, 

ground. 

As  clear-eyed  angels  can,  his  agony; 

River  and  waterfall, 

And  what  I  see  I  also  can  sustain, 

Forest  and  wilderness, 

Because  his  power  protects  me  from 

Mountain    and    city,     are     together 

his  pain. 

wrung 

I  have  groaned;  I  have  travailed:   I 

Into  one  shape,  and  that  is  shapeless- 

am  dreary, 

ness: 

Harkening   the    thick    sobs    of    my 

The  darkness  stands  for  all. 

children's  heart: 

Zerah.  The  pathos  hath  the  day  un- 

How can  I  say  "  Depart " 

done: 

II 


THE  SERAPHTM. 


223 


Tlie  death-look  of  his  eyes 
Hath  overcome  the  sun, 
And  made  it  sicken   in  its    narrow 
skies. 
Ador.  Is  it  to  death  ?    He  dieth. 
Zerah.  Through  the  dark 

He  still,  he  only,  is  discernible. 
The  naked  hands  and  feet  transfixed 

stark, 
The  countenance  of  patient  anguish 
white. 
Do  make  themselves  a  light 
More  dreadful  than  the  glooms  which 

round  them  dwell, 
And  therein  do  thev  shine. 

Ador.  God  !  Father-God  ! 

Perpetual   Radiance   on   the  radiant 

throne ! 
Uplift  the  lids  of  inward  deity, 
Flashing  abi'oad 
Thy  burning  Infinite  ! 
Light  up  this  dark  where  there    is 

nought  to  see 
Except  the  uuimagined  agony 
Upon  the  sinless  forehead  of  the  Son  ! 
Zerah.  God,    tarry    not !      Behold, 
enow 
Hath  he  wandered  as  a  stranger, 
Sorrowed  as  a  victim.    Thou 
Appear  for  him,  O  Father  ! 
Appear  for  him.  Avenger  ! 
Apjjear  for  him.  Just  One  and  Holy 
One, 
For  he  is  holy  and  just ! 
At  once  the  darkness  and  dishonor 

rather 
To  the  ragged  jaws  of  hungry  chaos 
rake. 
And  hixrl  aback  to  ancient  dust 
These  mortals  that  make   blasphe- 
mies 
"With  their  made  breath,  this  earth 
and  skies 
That  only  grow  a  little  dim. 
Seeing  their  curse  on  him. 
But  him,  of  all  forsaken. 
Of  creature  and  of  brother, 
Never  wilt  thou  forsake  ! 
Thy  living    and    thy  loving    cannot 

slacken 
Their  firm  essential  hold  upon   each 

other, 
And  well  thou  dost  remember  how 

his  part 
Was  still  to  lie  upon  thy  breast,  and 

be 
Partaker  of  the  light  that  dwelt  in 
thee 
Ere  sun  or  seraph  shone ; 


And    how,    while    silence    trembled 

round  the  throne. 
Thou    countedst  by  the   beatings  of 

his  heart 
The  moments  of  thine  own  eternity. 

Awaken, 
O  right   hand  with    the    lightnings  ! 

Again  gather 
His  glory  to  thy   glory  !     What   es- 

tranger, 
What  ill  supreme  in  evil,  can  be  thrust 
Between  the  faithful  Father  and  the 
Son? 
Appear  for  him,  O  Father  ! 
Appear  for  him.  Avenger  ! 
Appear  for  him,  Just  One  and  Holy 
One, 
For  he  is  holy  and  just ! 
Adoi'.  Thy    face    upturned    toward 
the  throne  is  dark; 
Thou  hast  no  answer,  Zerah. 

Zerah.  No  replj% 

O  unforsaking  Father  ? 

Ador.  Hark ! 

Instead  of  downward  voice,  a  cry 
Is  uttered  from  beneath. 
Zerah.  And    by    a    sharper    sound 
than  death 
Mine  immortality  is  riven. 
The  heavy  darkness  which  doth  tent 

the  sky 
Floats  backward  as  by  a  sudden  wind; 
But  I  see  no  light  behind; 
But  I  feel  the  farthest  stars  are  all 
Stricken  and  shaken. 
And  I  know  a  shadow  sad  and  broad 

Doth  fall  —  doth  fall 
On  our  vacant  thrones  in  heaven. 
Voice  from  the   Cross.  My  God,  my 
God, 
Why  hast  thou  me  forsaken? 
The  Earth.  Ah  me,  ah  me,  ah  me  ! 
the  dreadful  why  ! 
My  sin  is  on  thee,  sinless  one  !    Thou 

art 
God-orphaned  for  my  burden  on  thy 

head. 
Dark  sin,  white  innocence,  endurance 

dread  ! 
Be    still    within    yoiir    shrouds,    my 

buried  dead, 
Nor    work    with    this    quick    horror 
round  mine  heart. 
Zerah.  He    hath  forsaken    Him.    I 

perish. 
Ador.  Hold 

Upon  his  name  !  we  perish  not.    Of 

old 
His  will  — 


I 


224 


THE  SERAPHIM. 


Zerah.  I  seek  liis  will.     Seek,  sera- 
phim ! 
My    God,    my    God !     where    is    it  ? 

Doth  that  curse 
Reverberate  spare  us,  seraph  or  uni- 
verse ? 
He  hath  forsaken  Him. 
Ador.  He  cannot  fail. 
Anqel  Voices.  We  faint,  we  droop; 

Our  love  doth  tremble  like  fear. 
Voices    of  Fallen  Angels  from    the 
Earth.  Do  we  prevail  ? 
Or  are  we  lost  ?    Hath  not  the  ill  we 
did 
Been  heretofore  our  good  ? 
Is    it    not    ill   that  One,    all  sinless, 

should 
Hang    heavy   with    all    curses    on  a 

cross  ? 
Nathless,  that   cry !     With    huddled 

faces  hid 
Within  the  empty  graves  which  men 

did  scoop 
To  hold  more  damned  dead,  we  shud- 
der through 
What  shall  exalt  us,  or  undo, — 
Our  triumph,  or  our  loss. 
Voice  from  the  Cross.  It  is  finished. 
Zerah.  Hark,  again  ! 

Like  a  victor  speaks  the  slain. 
Angel  Voices.  Finished  be  the  trem- 
bling vain  ! 
Ador.  Upward,    like    a    well-loved 
son, 
Looketh  He,  the  orphaned  One. 
Angel  Voices.  Finished  is  the  mystic 

pain. 
Voices  of  Fallen  Angels,  His  deathly 
forehead  at  the  word 
Gleameth  like  a  seraph  sword. 
Angel  Voices.  Finished  is  the  demon 

reign. 
Ador.  His  breath,   as    living    God, 
createth ; 
His  breath,  as  dying  man,  completeth. 
Angel  Voices.  Finished     work     his 

hands  sustain. 
The  Earth.  In   mine  ancient  sepul- 
chres. 
Where  my  kings  and  prophets  freeze, 
Adam  dead  four  thousand  years, 
Unwakened  by  the  universe's 
Everlasting  moan. 
Aye  his  ghastly  silence  mocking  — 
Unwakened  by  his  children's  knock- 
ing 
At  his  old  sepulchral  stone, 
"  Adam,  Adam,  all  this  curse  is 
Thine  and  on  us  yet !  "  — 


Unwakened  by  the  ceaseless  tears 
Wherewith  they  made  his  cerement 
wet, 
"  Adam,  must  thy  curse  remain?  "  — 
Starts  with  sudden  life  and  hears. 
Through  the  slow  dripping  of  the  cav- 
erned  eaves,  — 
Angel  Voices.  Finished  is  his  bane. 
Voice  from  the  Cross.  Father  !  my 

SPIRIT  TO  THINE  HANDS  IS  GIVEN. 

Ador.  Hear  the  wailing  winds  that 
be 
By  wings  of  unclean  spirits  made  1 
They  in  that  last  look  surveyed 
The  love  they  lost  in  losing  heaven, 
And  passionately  fiee 
With  a  desolate  cry  that  cleaves 
The  natural  storms,  though  the]/  are 

lifting 
God's  strong  cedar-roots  like  leaves, 
And  the  earthquake  and  the  thun- 
der. 
Neither  keeping  either  under. 
Roar  and  hurtle  through  the  glooms, 
And  a  few  pale  stars  are  drifting 
Past  the  dark  to  disappear. 
What  time,  from  the  splitting  tombs 
Gleauiingly  the  dead  arise, 
Viewing  with    their    death-calmed 

eyes 
The  elemental  strategies. 
To  witness,  victory  is  the  Lord's. 
Hear  the  wail  o'  the  spirits  !  hear  ! 
Zerah.  I  hear  alone  the  memory  of 
his  words. 


EPILOGUE. 


My  song  is  done. 

My  voice  that  long  hath  faltered  shall 
be  still. 

The  mystic  darkness  drops  from  Cal- 
vary's hill 

Into  the  common  light  of  this  day's 
sun. 

II. 

I  see  no  more  thy  cross,  O  holy  Slain! 
I  hear  no  more  the   horror  and  the 

coil 
Of  the  great  world's  turmoil 
Feeling  thy  countenance  too   still, — 

nor  yell 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND. 


225 


Of  demons  sweeping  past  it   to  their 

prison. 
Tiie  skies   that    turned    to  darkness 
with  thy  pain 
Make  now  a  summer's  day ; 
And  on  my  changed  ear  that  sabbath 
bell 
Records  how  Christ  is  risen. 

III. 

And  I  —ah,  what  am  I 

To    counterfeit,   with    faculty  earth- 
darkened, 
Seraphic  brows  of  light. 

And  seraph  language  never  used  nor 
barkened  ? 

Ah  me  !  what  word  that  seraphs  say, 
could  come 

From  mouth  so  used  to  sighs,  so  soon 
to  lie 

Sighless,  because  then  breathless,  in 
the  tomb  ? 

IV. 

Bright  ministers  of  God  and  grace, 

of  grace 
Because  of  God  !  —  whether  ye  bow 

adown 
In  your  own  heaven,  before  the  living 

face 
Of  Him  who  died,  and  deathless  wears 

the  crown. 
Or  whether  at  this  hour  ye  haply  are 


Anear,  around  me,  hiding  in  the  night 
Of  this  permitted  ignorance  your  Ihigt, 

This  feebleness  to  spare, — 
Forgive  me,  that  mine  earthly  heart 

should  dare 
Shape  images  of  unincarnate  spirits. 
And  lay  upon  their  burning  lips  a 

thought 
Cold  with  the  weeping  which  mine 

earth  inherits. 
And  though  ye  find  in  such  hoarse 

music,  wrought 
To  copy  yours,  a  cadence  all  the  while 
Of  sin  and  sorrow,  only  pitying  smile! 
Ye  know  to  pity,  well. 


/,  too,  may  haply  smile  another  day 
At  the  fair  recollection  of  this  lay. 
When  God  may  call  me  in  your  midst 

to  dwell. 
To  hear  your  most  sweet  music's  mir- 
acle. 
And  see  your  wondrous  faces.    May 

it  be  ! 
For  his  remembered  sake,  the  Slain 

on  rood, 
"Who  rolled  his  earthly  garment  red 

in  blood 
(Treading    the    wine-press)  that    the 

weak,  like  me, 
Before    his    heavenly  throne  should 

walk  in  white. 


PROMETHEUS  BOUND. 


FROM   THE   GREEK   OP  .ffliSCHYLUS. 


PERSONS  OF  THE    DRAMA. 

Prometheus.        Heph^stus. 
OcEANUS.  lo,  daughter  of   Ina- 

Hermes.  chus. 

Strength  and  Force. 
Chorus  of  Ocean  Nymphs. 

Scene.  —  Strength  and  Force,  Heph^s- 
tus  and  Prometheus,  at  the  Rocks. 

Strength.  "We  reach  the  utmost  limit 
of  the  earth,  — 
The  Scythian  track,  the  desert  with- 
out man. 


J^ 


And    now,    Hephsestus,    thou    must 

needs  fulfil 
The  mandate  of  our  Father,  and  wtih 

links 
Indissoluble  of  adamantine  chains 
Fasten  against  this  beetling  precipice 
This  guilty  god.     Because  he  filched 

away 
Thine  own  bright  flower,  the  glory  of 

plastic  fire. 
And  gifted  mortals  with  it,  —  such  a 

sin 
It  doth  behoove  he  expiate  to  the  gods, 


226 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND. 


Learning  to  accept  the  empery  of  Zeus, 
And  leave  off  his  old  trielc  of  loving 

man. 
Ilephcestus.  O  Strength  and   Force, 

for  you  our  Zeus's  will 
Presents  a  deed  for  doing,  no  more  !  — 

But  I, 
I  lack  your  daring,  up  this  storm-rent 

chasm 
To  fix  with  violent  hands  a  kindred 

god, 
Howbeit  necessity  compels  me  so 
That  I  must  dare  it,   and  our  Zeus 

commands 
With  a  most  inevitahle  word.     Ho, 

thou ! 
High-thoughted  son  of  Themis,  who  is 

sage  ! 
Thee  loath,  I  loath  must  rivet  fast  in 

chains 
Against  this  rocky  height  unclomb  by 

man. 
Where  never  human  voice  nor  face 

shall  find 
Out  thee  who  lov'st  them;   and  thy 

beauty's  flower, 
Scorched  in  the  sun's  clear  heat,  shall 

fade  away. 
Night  shall  come  up  with  garnitiire  of 

stars 
To  comfort  thee  with  shadow,  and  the 

sun 
Disperse     with     retrickt    beams  the 

morning-frosts; 
But  through  all  changes,  sense  of  pres- 
ent woe 
Shall  vex    thee    sore,    because  with 

none  of  them 
There  comes  a  hand  to  free.     Such 

fruit  is  plucked 
From  love  of  man  !    And  in  that  thou, 

a  god, 
Didst  brave  the  wrath  of  gods,  and 

give  away 
Undue  respect  to   mortals,   for    that 

crime 
Thou  art  adjudged  to  guard  this  joy- 
less rock. 
Erect,  unslumberiug,  bending  not  the 

knee. 
And  many  a  cry  and  unavailing  moan 
To  utter  on  the  air.     For  Zeus  is  stern, 
And  new-made  kings  are  cruel. 

Strewjth.  Be  it  so. 

Why  loiter  in  vain  pity  ?    Why  not 

hate 
A  god  the  gods  hate  ?  —  one,  too,  who 

l)etrayed 
Thy  glory  unto  men  ? 


Jlephcestus.  An  awful  thing 

Is  kinshijj  joined  to  friendship. 

Strength.  Grant  it  be: 

Is  disobedience  to  the  Father's  word 
A  possible    thing  ?     Dost    quail    not 
more  for  that  ? 

Ilephcestus.  Thou,    at    least,    art    a 
stern  one,  ever  bold. 

Strength.  Why,  if  I  wept,  it  were  no 
remedy; 
And  do  not  thou  spend  labor  on  the  air 
To  bootless  uses. 

HephcEstus.  Cursed  handicraft ! 

I  curse  and  hate  thee,  O  my  craft ! 

Strength.  Why  hate 

Thy  craft  most  plainly  innocent  of  all 
These  pending  ills  ? 

Heioh(B.^tus.  I  would  some  other  hand 
Were  here  to  work  it ! 

Strength.      All  work  hath  its  pain. 
Except  to  rule  the  gods.     There  is 

none  free 
Except  King  Zeus. 

IlephcBStus.  I  know  it  very  well ; 

I  argue  not  against  it. 

Strength.  Wliy  not,  then, 

Make  haste  and  lock  the  fetters  over 

HIM, 

Lest  Zeus  behold  thee  lagging  ? 

Hephaestus.  Here  be  chains. 

Zeus  may  behold  these. 

Strength.    Seize  him;  strike  amain; 
Strike  with  the  hammer  on  each  side 

his  hands; 
Rivet  him  to  the  rock. 

Hephcestus.  The  work  is  done. 

And  thoroughly  done. 

Strength.      Still  faster  grai^ple  him; 
Wedge  him  in  decider;  leave  no  inch 

to  stir. 
He's  terrible  for  finding  a  way  out 
From  the  irremediable. 

Ilephcestus.    Here's  an  arm,  at  least. 
Grappled  past  freeing. 

Strength.  Now,  then,  btickle  me 

The  otlier  securely.    Let  this  wise  one 

learn 
He's  duller  than  our  Zeus. 

Hepjhoestus.  Oh,  none  but  he 

Accuse  me  justly. 
Strength.   Now,  straight  through  the 
ciiest, 
Take    him    and    bite    him    with    the 

clenching  tooth 
Of  the  adamantine  wedge,  and  rivet 
him. 
Ilephcestus.  Alas,  Prometheus,  what 
thou  sufferest  here 
I  sorrow  over. 


"  Behold  nie,  a  god,  what  I  endure  from  gods  !  "—Page  227. 


"♦z;;:^. 


PROMETHEUS  BOUND. 


Strencitli.         Dost  thou  flinch  again, 
Autl  breathe  groans  lor  the  enemies 

of  Zens? 
Beware  lest  tliine  own  pity  tind  thee 

out. 
Iliphagtiis.  Thou  dost  l>ehokl  a  spec- 

taele  tliat  turns 
The  sight  o'  the  eyes  to  pity. 

Strength.  I  l)ehohl 

A  sinner  suffer  his  sin's  ]ienalty. 
But  lash  the  thongs  about  his  sides. 

Ilephcestus.  So  much 

I   must  do.     Urge  no  farther  tlian  I 

must. 
Strength.  Ay,  but  I  v!//  urge  !  and, 

with  sliout  on  sht)nt, 
Will  hound  tliee  at  this  (piarry.     (let 

thee  down, 
And  ring  amain  the   iron   round    liis 

legs. 
Hephoistus.  That  work  was  not  long 

doing. 
Strength.  Heavily  now 

Let   fall  the  strokes  upon  the  perfo- 

rant  gyves; 
For  he   who  rates    the   work    lias   a 

heavy  hand. 
IlepMestus.  Thy  speech  is  savage  as 

thy  shape. 
■  Strength.  Be  thou 

Gentle  and  tender,  but  revile  not  me 
For   the    firm   will   and   the    untruc- 

kling  hate, 
llephce!<tiis.  Ijet  us   go.     He    is  net- 
ted round  with  chains. 
Strength.  Here,  now,  taunt  on  !  and, 

having  spoiled  the  gods 
Of   honors,  crown  withal  tliy  mortal 

men 
AVho   live   a   whole   day   out.     Why, 

how  could  theg 
Draw  off  from  thee  one  single  of  thy 

griefs  ? 
Metliinks   the   Diemons   gave   thee   a 

wrong  name, 
PrornetheKH,  which  means  Providence, 

because 
riiou  dost  thyself  need  providence  to 

see 
Thy   roll   and   ruin    from    the   toji   of 

doom. 
Prometheus   {(dune).  O  holy  ^'Ether, 

and  swift-winged  Winds, 
And  River-wells,  and  Laughter  innu- 

merous 
of  yon  sea-waves  !     Earth,  mother  of 

us  all. 
And  all-viewing  cyclic  Sun,  I  cry  on 

you,  — 


Behold  me  a  god,  what  I  endure  from 
gods  ! 
Behold,  with  throe  on  throe, 
How,  wasted  by  this  woe, 
I  wrestle  down  the  myriad  yt^ars  of 
time  ! 
Behold  how,  fast  around  me, 
The  new  King  of  the  hai>py  ones 

sublime 
Has  flung  the  chain  he  forged,  has 

shamed  and  bound  me  ! 
Woe,  woe  !   to-day's   woe   and    the 

coming  morrow's 
I  cover  with  one  groan.    And  where 
is  found  me 
A  limit  to  these  sorrows  ? 
And   yet  what   word   do  I  say  ?    I 

have  foreknown 
Clearly  all  things   that  should  be; 

nothing  done 
Comes   sudden  to   my   soul;  and  I 

must  bear 
What    is    ordained  with    patience, 

being  aware 
Necessity  doth  front  the  universe 
With   an   invincible   gesture.      Yet 

this  curse 
Which  strikes  me  now  I  find  it  hard 

to  brave 
In  silence  or  in  speech.     Because  1 

gave 
Honor  to  mortals,  I  have  voiced  my 

soul 
To  this  compelling  fate.     Because  I 

stole 
The  secret  fount  of  fire,  whose  bnl>- 

bles  went 
Over  the   ferule's   brim,  and    man- 
ward  sent 
Art's  mighty  means  and  perfect  ru- 
diment, 
That  sin  I  expiate  in  this  agony. 
Hung   here   in    fetters,    'neath   the 
blanching  sky. 
Ah,  ah  me  !  what  a  sountl  ! 
What  a  fragrance  sweeps  up  from  a 

pinion  unseen 
Of  a  god,  or  a  mortal,  or  nature  be- 
tween. 
Sweeping  up  to  this  rock  where  the 

Earth  has  her  bound, 
To  have  siglit  of  my  pangs,  or  some 

guerdon  obtain. 
Lo,  a  god  in  the  anguish,  a  god  in  the 
chain  ! 
The  god  Zeus  hateth  sore, 
And  ids  gods  hate  again. 
As  many  as  tread  on   his    glorified 
floor, 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND. 


Because  I  loved   mortals   too    much 

evermore. 
Alas  me  !  what  a  mnrniur  and  motion 
I  hear, 
As  of  birds  flying  near  ! 
And  the  air  undersings 
The  light  stroke  of  their  wings, 
And  all  life  that  approaches  I  wait  for 
in  fear. 

Chorvs  of  Sea-iii/nipJis,  1st  strophe. 
Fear  nothing  !  our  troop 
Floats  lovingly  up 
^^'ith  a  cpiick-oaring  stroke 
Of  wings  steered  to  the  rock, 
Ha\ing    softened    the     soul     of    our 

father  below. 
For  the   gales  of   swift-bearing   have 

.  sent  me  a  sound, 
And  the  clank  of  the  iron,  the   mal- 
letted  blow. 
Smote  down  the  profound 
Of  my  caverns  of  old. 
And  struck  the  red   light  in  a  blush 

from  my  brow. 
Till  I  sprang  up  unsandalled,  m  haste 

to  behold, 
And    rushed    forth  on  my  chariot   of 
wings  manifold. 

Promi'theiis.  Alas  me  !  alas  me  ! 
Ye  offspring  of  Tethys,  who  bore  at 

her  breast 
Many  children,  and  eke  of  Oceanus,  he. 
Coiling  still   around   earth  with  per- 
isetual  unrest ! 
Behold  me  and  see 
How  transfixed  with  the  fang 
Of  a  fetter  I  hang 
On  the  high-jutting  rocks  of  this  fis- 
sure, and  keep 
An   uncoveted  watch  o'er  the  world 
and  the  deep. 

Chorus,  1st  antistrophe. 

I  behold  thee,  Prometheus;  yet  now, 
yet  now, 

A  terrible  cloud  whose  rain  is  tears 

Sweeps  over  mine  eyes  that  witness 
how 

Thy  body  appears 

Hung  awaste  on  the  rocks  by  infran- 
gible chains: 

For  new  is  the  hand,  new  the  rudder, 
that  steers 

The   ship  of   Olympus  through  surge 
and  wind, 

And  of  old  things. passed,  uo  track  is 
behind. 


PrometheKs.    Under     earth,     under 

Hades, 

Where  the  home  of  the  shade  is. 

All  into  the  deep,  deep  Tartarus, 

I  would  he  had  hurled  me  adown. 

I  would  he  had  plunged  me,  fastened 

thus 
In  the  knotted  chain,  with  the  savage 

clang, 
All  into  the  dark,  where  there  should 

be  none, 
Neither  god  nor  another,  to  laugh  and 
see. 
But  now  the  winds  sing  through 

and  shake 
The    hurtling    chains   wherein   I 

hang, 
And  I  in  my  naked  sorrows  make 
Much  mirth  for  my  enemy. 

Chorus,  2(1  strophe. 
Nay  !  who  of  the  gods  hath  a  heart  so 
stern 
As  to  use  thy  woe  for  a  mock  and 
mirth  ? 
"Who  would  not  turn  more  mild  to  learn 
Thy  sorrows  ?  who   of  the   heaven 
and  earth 
Save  Zeus  ?    But  he 
Right  wrathfuUy 
Bears  on  his  sceptral  soul  unbent, 
And    rules    thereby    the    heavenly 

seed. 
Nor  will  he  pause  till  he  content 
His  thirsty  heart  in  a  finished  deed. 
Or  till  Another  shall  appear. 
To  win  by  fraud,  to  seize  by  fear, 
The  hard -to -be -captured  govern- 
ment. 

Prometheus.  Yet  even  of  me  he  shall 

have  need, 
That  monarch  of  the  blessed  seed,  — 
Of  me,  of  me  who  now  am  cursed 

By  his  fetters  dire,  — 
To  wring  my  secret  out  withal. 
And    learn  by  whom  his   sceptre 
shall 
Be   filched  from  him,  as  was  at  first 
His  heavenly  tire. 
But  he  never  shall  enchant  me 
With    his    honey-lipped    persua- 
sion; 
Never,  never,  shall  he  daunt  me. 
With  the  oath  and  threat  of  passion, 
Into  speaking  as  they  want  me, 
Till  he  loost'  this  savage  chain, 

And  accept  the  expiation 
Of  my  sorrow  in  his  pain. 


PROMETHEUS   ROUND. 


Cliiinas,  2d  antistrophe. 
Thou  art,  sootli,  a  brave  fjod, 

And,  for  all  thou  liast  borno 
From  the  stroke  of  the  rod, 

Nought  relaxest  from  scorn. 
l!ut  thou  speakest  unto  me 

Too  free  and  unworn ; 
And  a  terror  sti'ikes  througli  me 

And  festers  my  soul. 

And  I  fear,  in  the  roll 
Of  the  storm,  for  thy  fate 

In  the  shii)  far  from  shore; 
Since  the  son  of  Saturnus  is  hard  in 

his  hate. 
And  unmoved  in   his   heart    ever- 
more. 

Prometheus.  I  know   that    Zeus   is 

stern; 
I  know  he  metes  bis  justice  by  his  will ; 
And  yet  his  soul  shall  learn 
More  s  )ftness  when  once  broken  by 

this  ill; 
And,     curbing     his      unconquerable 

vaunt, 
He  shall  rush  on  in  fear  to  meet  with 

me 
"Who  rush  to  meet  with  him  in  agony, 
To  issues  of  harmonious  covenant. 
Chorus.  Remove   the  veil   from   all 

things,  and  relate 
The  story  to  us, — of  what  crime  ac- 
cused, 
Zeus  smites  thee  with  dishonoral)le 

pangs. 
Speak,  if  to  teach  iis  do  not  grieve 

thyself. 
Prometlivus.  The  utterance  of  these 

things  is  torture  to  me. 
But  so,  too,  is  their  silence:  cacii  way 

lies 
Woe  strong  as  fate. 

When  gods  began  with  wrath, 
And  war  rose  uji  between  their  starry 

brows. 
Some  choosing  to  cast  Chronos  from 

his  throne 
That   Zeus   might   king  it  there,  and 

some  in  haste 
With  opposite  oaths,  that  they  would 

have  no  Zeus 
To  rule  the  gods    forever,  —  I,   who 

brought 
The  counsel  I  thought  meetest,  could 

not  move 
The  Titans,  children  of  the  Heaven 

aTid  Earth, 
What  time,  disdaining  in  their  rugged 

souls 


M3'     subtle     machinations,    they    as- 
sumed 
It   was   an    easy   thing    for   force    to 

take 
The    mastery    of    fate.     My    mother, 

then, 
Who  is  called  not  only  Thenus,  but 

Earth  too, 
(Her    single    beauty    joys    in    many 

names) 
Did  teach  me  with  reiterant  prophec\- 
What  future  should  be,  and  how  con- 
quering gods 
Should   not   prevail   by  strength  and 

violence, 
But  by  guile  only.     When  I  told  them 

so, 
They  would  not  deign  to  contemplate 

the  truth 
On  all  sides  round;  whereat  I  deemed 

it  best 
To  lead  my  willing  mother  upwardly, 
And  set  my  Themis  face  to  face  with 

Zeus 
As  willing  to  receive  her.    Tartarus, 
With  its  abysmal  cloister  of  the  Dark, 
Because  I  gave  that  counsel,  covers 

up 
The   antique  Chronos  and  his  siding 

hosts, 
And,  by  that  counsel  helped,  the  king 

of  gods 
Hath  recompensed  me  with  these  bit- 
ter pangs; 
For  kingshii:)   wears  a  cancer  at  the 

heart,  — 
Distrust  in   friendship.     Do    ye  also 

ask 
What  crime  it  is  for  which  he  tortures 

me  ? 
That  shall  be  clear  before  you.    When 

at  first 
He   filled  his  father's  throne,  he  in- 
stantly 
Made  various   gifts  of    glory  to  the 

gods. 
And  dealt  the  empire  out.     Alone  of 

men, 
Of  miserable  men,  he  took  no  count. 
But  yearned  to  sweep  their  track  off 

from  the  world, 
Aiul  plant  a  newer  race  there.     Not  a 

god 
Resisted  such  desii'e,  except  mysell. 
/  dared  it !    I  drew  mortals  back  to 

light. 
From  meditated  ruin  deep  as  hell  ! 
For  whi<h  wrong  I  am  bent  down  in 

these  pangs 


I 


i 


230 


PRO  MET  HE  US   BO  UND. 


Dreadful   to  suffer,  mournful    to    be- 
hold, 
And  I  who  pitied   mau   aiu   thouglit 

myself 
Unworthy   of   pity;,   while    I    render 

out 
Deep  rhythms  of  anguish  'nfath  the 

harping  hand 
That    strikes    me    thus,  —  a  sight  to 
shame  your  Zeus  ! 
Chorus.  Hard   as   thy   chains,    and 
cold  as  all  these  rocks, 
Is  he,  Prometheus,  who  withholds  his 

heart 
From  joining  in  thy  woe.     I  j-earned 

before 
To  flv  this  sight;  and,  now  I  gaze  on 

'it, 
I  sicken  inwards. 

Pi-oinethetis.  To  my  friends,  indeed, 
I  must  be  a  sad  sight. 

ChoriiK.  And  didst  thou  sin 

No  more  than  so  ? 

Pro  met  he  as.      I  did  restrain  besides 

My  mortals  from  premeditating  death. 

Chorus.  How   didst   thou   medicine 

the  plague-fear  of  death  ? 
Prometheus.  I   set  blind   Hopes   to 

inhabit  in  tlieir  house. 
Chorus.  By  that  gift  thou  didst  help 

thy  mortals  well. 
Prometheus.  I  gave  them  also  fire. 
Chorus.  And  have  they  now, 

Those  creatures  of    a  day,  the  red- 
eyed  tire  ? 
Prometheus.  They   have,  and   shall 

learn  by  it  many  arts. 
Chorus.  And    truly    tor    sucli    sins 
Zeus  tortures  thee, 
And  will  remit  no  anguish  ?    Is  there 

set 
No  limit  before  thee  to  thine  agony  ? 
Prometheus.  No  other  — only  what 

seems  good  to  him. 
Chorus.  And  how  will  it  seem  good  ? 
what  hope  remains  ? 
Seest  thou  not  tliat  thou  hast  sinned  ? 

But  that  tliou  hast  sinned 
It  glads  me   not    to    s])eak    of,   and 

grieves  thee; 
Then  let  it  pass  from  botli,  and  seek 

thyself 
Some  outlet  from  distress^. 

Prometheus.  It  is  in  truth 

An  easy  thing  to  stand  aloof  from 

pain, 
And  lavish  exhortation  and  advice 
On  one  vexed  sorely  by  it.    I  have 
known 


All  in  prevision.     By  my  choice,  my 

choice, 
I  freel.v  sinned,  —  I  will   confess   my 

sin,  — 
And,    helping    mortals,    found    mine 

own  despair. 
I  did  not  think  indeed  that  I  should 

pine 
Beneath     such     pangs    against    such 

skyey  rocks, 
Doomed  to   this    drear    hill,    and    nn 

neighboring 
Of  any  life.     But    mourn    not   ye  for 

griefs 
I  bear  to-day:  hear  rather,  diopping 

down 
To   the   plain,  how  other  woes  creep 

on  to  me, 
And  learn  the  consummation  of   my 

doom. 
Beseech  you,  nymphs,  beseech  you, 

grieve  for  me 
Who    now    am    grieving;     for    Grief 

walks  the  earth. 
And  sits  down  at  the  foot  of  each  by 
turns. 
Chorus.  We  hear  the  deep  clasli  of 
th,y  words, 
Prometheus,  and  obey. 
And    I    spring    with    a  rapid   foot 

away 
From  the  rushing  car  and  the  holy 
air, 
Tlie  track  of  birds; 
And  I  drop  to  the  rugged  ground, 
and  there 
Await  the  tale  of  thy  despair. 

OcEANUS  enters. 

Oceanus.  I  reach  the  bourne  of  my 
weary  road 
Where  I    may  see    and    answer 

thee, 
Prometheus,  in  thine  agony. 
On  the  back  of  the  quick-winged  l)ird 
I  glode. 
And  I  bridled  him  in 
With  the  will  of  a  god. 
Behold,  thy  sorrow  aches  in  me 

Constrained  by  the  force  of  kin. 
Nay,  though  that  tie  were   all   un- 
done, 
For  the  life  of  none  beneath  tlie  sun 
Would  I  seek  a  larger  benison 

Than  I  seek  for  thine. 
And  thou  shalt  learn  my  words  are 

truth , 
That  no  fair  parlance  of  the  mouth 
Grows  falsely  out  of  mine. 


h»HI-#H 


FRUMKTIIE US  BO UND. 


231 


Now  give  me  a  deed  to  prove  my 

faith; 
For  no  faster  friend  is  named   in 
breath 
Than  I,  Oceanus,  am  thine 
J'rometheus.  Ha  1  what  has  brought 

thee  ?    Hast  thou  also  come 
To   look   npon   my  woe?    How   hast 

thou  dared 
To  leave  the  depths  called  after  tlio(?  ? 

the  caves 
Self-hewn,  and  self-roofed  with  sjion- 

taueous  rock, 
To   visit    Earth,    the   mother   of    my 

chain  ? 
Hast  come,  indeed,  to  view  my  doom, 

and  mourn 
That   I   should    sorrow   thus?    Gaze 

on,  and  see 
How  I,  the  fast  friend  of  your  Zeus, 

—  how  I 
The  erector  of  the  empire  in  his  hand. 
Am  bent  beneath  that   hand   in   this 

despair. 
Oceanus.      Prometheus,    I    behold; 

and  I  would  fain 
Exhort   thee,    though   already  subtle 

enough. 
To    a    better   wisdom.     Titan,   know 

thyself. 
And  take  new  softness  to  thy  man- 
ners, since 
A  new  king  rules  the  gods.     If  words 

like  these, 
Harsh    words    and    trenchant,    thon 

wilt  fling  abroad, 
Zeus  haply,  though  he  sit  so  far  and 

high', 
May  hear  thee  do  it,  and  so  this  wrath 

of  his, 
■Which  now  affects  thee  fien^ely,  shall 

appear 
A  mere  child's  sport  at  vengeance. 

"Wretched  god, 
Rather    dismiss    the    passion    which 

thou  hast. 
And  seek  a  change  from  grief.     Per- 
haps I  seem 
To  address  thee  with   old  saws  and 

outworn  sense; 
Yet  such  a  curse,  Prometheus,  surely 

waits 
On  lips  that  speak  too  proudly:  thou, 

meantime, 
Art  none  the  meeker,  nor  dost  yield 

a  jot 
To  evil  cii'cumstance,  preparing  still 
To  swell   the  account  of  grief  with 

other  griefs 


Than  what  are  borne.     Beseech  thee, 

use  me,  then. 
For  counsel:  do  not  spurn  against  the 

pricks. 
Seeing    that   wlio    reigns,   reigns    by 

cruelty 
Instead    of    right.     And    now    I    go 

from  hence, 
And   will    endeavor    if    a    power  of 

mine 
Can  brea.k  thj^  fetters  through.     For 

thee —  be  calm. 
And  smooth  thy  words  from  passion. 

Knowest  thou  not 
Of    perfect    knowledge,     thou    who 

knowest  too  much. 
That,  where  the  tongue  wags,   ruin 

never  lags  ? 
Promethevs.  I    gratulate  thee  wlio 

hast  shared  and  dared 
All  things  with  me,  except  their  pen- 
alty. 
Enough    so  !    leave    these    thoughts. 

It  cannot  be 
That   thou  shouldst  move  him.     He 

may  iivt  be  moved; 
And  thou,  beware  of  sorrow  on  this 

road. 
Oceanus.     Ay  !    ever   wiser   for   an- 
other's use 
Than  thine.    Tlie  event,  and  not  the 

prophecy, 
Attests  it  to  me.     Yet,  where  now  I 

rush, 
Thy  wisdom  hath  no  power  to  drag 

me  back, 
Because  I  glory,  glory,  to  go  hence, 
And  win  for  thee   deliverance  from 

thy  i«angs, 
As  a  free  gift  from  Zeus. 

Prometheus.  Why  there,  again, 

I  give  thee  gratulation' and  applause. 
Thou  lackest  no  good  will.     But,  as 

for  deeds. 
Do  nought!   'twere  all  done  vainly, 

helping  nought. 
Whatever  thou  wouldst  do.    Rather 

take  rest, 
And  keep  thyself    from    evil.     If    I 

grieve, 
I  do  not  therefore  wish  to  multiply 
The  griefs  of  others.     Verily,  not  so! 
For  still  my  brother's  doom  doth  vex 

my  soul,  — 
My   brother  Atlas,  standing  in    the 

west, 
Shouldering  the  column  of  the  heaven 

and  earth, 
A  difficult  burden!    I  have  also  seen. 


232 


I'ROMETUK  US   BO  UXD. 


And 


as  I  saw,  the  earth-born 


pitied 

one, 
The  inlaabitant  of  old  Cilician  caves. 
The  great  war-monster  of  tlie  linndred 

heads, 
(All  taken  and  bowed  beneath  the 

violent  Hand) 
Typhon  the  fierce,  who  did  resist  the 

gods, 
And,  hissing  slaughter  from  his  dread- 
ful jaws, 
Flash  out  ferocious  glory  from  his  eyes 
As   if  to   storm   the  tlirone  of   Zeus. 

Whereat, 
The    sleepless    arrow    of    Zeus    flew 

straight  at  him. 
The  headlong  bolt  of  thunder  ])reath- 

ing  flame. 
And  struck  him  downward  from  his 

eminence 
Of  exultation ;  through  the  very  soul 
It  struck  him,  and  his  strength  was 

withered  up 
To  ashes,  thunder-blasted.     Now  he 

lies, 
A  heli>less  trunk,  supinely,   at  full- 
length 
Beside  the  strait  of  ocean,  spurred  into 
By  roots  of  ^Etna,  high  upon  whose 

tops 
Hephnestus  sits,  and  strikes  the  flash- 
ing ore. 
From  thence  the  rivers  of  fire  shall 

burst  away 
Hereafter,   and  devour  with  savage 

jaws 
The  equal  plains  of  fruitful  Sicily, 
Such  passion  he  shall  boil  back  in  hot 

darts 
Of  an  insatiate  fury  and  sough  of  flame, 
Fallen  Typhon,  howsoever  struck  and 

charred 
By  Zeus's  bolted  thunder.     But   for 

thee. 
Thou  art  not  so  unlearned  as  to  need 
My  teaching;  let  thy  knowledge  save 

thyself. 
I  quaff  the  full  cup  of  a  present  doom. 
And  wait  till  Zeus  hath  quenched  his 

will  in  wrath. 
Oceatuis.    Prometheus,  art  thou  ig- 
norant of  this. 
That  words  do  medicine  anger  ? 

Prometheus.  If  the  word 

With  seasonable  softness  touch  the 

soul. 
And,  where  the  parts  are   ulcerous, 

sear  them  not 
By  any  rudeness. 


With  a  noble  aim 
-is  there  harm  in 


Oceanus. 
To  dare  as  nobl^- 

tliat  ? 
Dost  thou  discern  it  ?    Teach  me. 

Prometheus.  I  discern 

Vain  aspiration,  unresultive  work. 
Oceanus.     Then   suffer  me   to   bear 
the  brunt  of  this. 
Since  it  is  profitable  that  one  who  is 

wise 
Should  seem  not  wise  at  all. 
Prometheus.  And  such  would 

seem 
My  very  crime. 

Oceanus.  In  truth  thine  argu- 

ment 
Sends  me  back  home. 
Prometheus.  Lest  anj-  lament 

for  me 
Should  cast  thee  down  to  hate. 

Oceanus.  The  hate  of  him 

Who  sits  a  new  king  on  the  absolute 
throne  ? 
Prometheus.     Beware  of    him,   lest 

thine  heart  grieve  by  him. 
Oceanus.     Thy   doom,  Prometheus, 

be  mj^  teacher  ! 
Prometheus.  Go  ! 

Depart !     Beware!     And    keep    the 
mind  thou  hast. 
Oceanus.    Thy  words  drive  after,  as 
I  rush  before. 
Lo,  my  four-footed  bird  sweeps  smooth 

and  wide 
The  flats  of  air  with  balanced  pinions, 

glad 
To  bend  his  knee  at  home  in  the  ocean- 
.stall. 

[Oceanus  departs. 

Chorus,  1st  strophe. 
I  moan  thj^  fate,  I  moan  for  thee, 
Prometheus!     From    my    ej-es    too 
tender 
Drop  after  drop  incessantly 

The  tears  of  my  heart's  pity  render 
My  cheeks  wet  from  their  fountains 

free; 
Because  that  Zeus,  the  stern  and  cold, 
Whose  law  is  taken  from  his  breast, 
Uplifts  his  sceptre  manifest 
Over  the  gods  of  old. 

1st  antistrophe. 
All  the  land  is  moaning 
With  a  murmured  plaint  to-day; 
All  the  mortal  nations 
Having  habitations 
In  the  holv  Asia 


mo  MET  hi:  us  bound. 


2fJ3 


i 

T 


Are  a  dirge  entoning 
For  thine  lionor  and  thy  brothers', 
Once  majestic  beyond  others 

In  the  old  belief,  — 
Now  are  groaning  in  the  groaning 

Of  thy  deep-voiced  grief. 

2d  strophe 
Mourn  the  maids  inhabitant 

Of  the  Colchian  land. 
Who  with  white,  calm  bosoms  stand 

In  the  battle's  roar  : 
Mourn  the  Scythian  tribes  that  haunt 
The  verge  of  earth,  Ma^otis'  shore. 

2(i  (oitistrophe. 
Yea  !     Arabia's  battle  crown. 
And    dwellers    in    the     beetling 

town 
Mt.  Caucasus  sublimely  nears  — 
An    iron    squadron,    thundering 
down 
With  the  sharp-prowed  spears. 

But  one  other  before  have  I  seen  to 
remain 
By  invincible  pain, 
Bound  and  vanquished,  —  one  Titan! 

'twas  Atlas,  who  bears 
In   a  curse  from  the    gods,   by  that 
strength  of  his  own 
Which  he  evermore  wears, 
The  weight  of  the  heaven  on  his  shoul- 
der alone, 
While  he  sighs  up  the  stars; 
And  the  tides  of  the  ocean  wail,  bursts 
ing  their  bars; 
Murmurs  still  the  profound, 
And  black  Hades  roars  up  tlirough  the 

chasm  of  the  ground. 
And   the   fountains    of    pure-running 
rivers  moan  low 
In  a  pathos  of  woe. 
Prometheus.  Beseech  you,  think  not 
I  am  silent  thus 
Through  pride  or  scorn.     I  onl^'  gnaw 

my  heart 
With    meditation,    seeing    myself  so 

wronged. 
For  see  —  their  honors  to  these  new- 
made  gods, 
What  other  gave  but  I,  and  dealt  them 

out 
With  distribution?    Ay!    but  here  I 

am  dumb: 
For  here  I  should  repeat  your  knowl- 
edge to  you, 
If  I  spake  aught.     List  rather  to  the 
deeds 


I   (lid    for  mortals;   how,    being  fools 
before, 

I  made  them  wise  and  true  in  aim  of 
soul. 

And  let   me  tell  you,  ^  not  as  taunt- 
ing men. 

But  teaching  you  the  intention  of  my 
gifts, — 

How,  first  beholding,  they  beheld  in 
vain. 

And,   hearing,   heard   not,   but.    like 
shapes  in  dreams. 

Mixed  all  things  wildly  down  the  te- 
dious time, 

Nor  knew  to  build  a  house  against  the 
sun 

With  wicketed  sides,  nor  any  wood- 
craft knew. 

But  lived,  like  silly  ants,  beneath  the 
ground 

In    hollow  caves    unsunned.     There 
came  to  them 

No  steadfast  sign  of  winter,  nor  of 
spring 

Flower-perfumed,  nor  of  summer  full 
of  fruit. 

But  blindlj'  and  lawlessly  theytlid  all 
things. 

Until  I  taught  them  how  the  stars  do 
rise 

And  set  in  mystery,  and  devised  for 
them 

Number,     the     inducer    of     philoso- 
phies. 

The  synthesis  of  letters,  and,  beside. 

The  artificer  of  all  things,  memory. 

That  sweet  muse-mother.     I  was  first 
to  yoke 

The  servile  beasts  in  couples,  carry- 
ing 

An  heirdom  of  man's  burdens  on  their 
backs. 

I  joined  to  chariots,  steeds,  that  love 
the  bit 

They  champ  at,  —  the  chief  pomji  of 
golden  ease. 

And  none  but  I  originated  ships. 

The  seaman's  chariots,  wanderings  on 
the  brine 

With  linen  wings.     And  I  —  oh,  mis- 
eral)le  !  — 

Who  did  devise  for  mortals  all  these 
arts. 

Have  no  device  left  now  to  save  my- 
self 

From  the  woe  I  suffer. 

Cliorns.  Most  unseemly  woe 

Thou  sufferest,  and  dost  stagger  from 
the  sense 


2^4 


rROMETHEUS   BOUND. 


Bewildered  !     I^ike  a  bad  leerh  falling 
sick. 

Tlion  art.  faint  at  soul,  and  canst  not 
lind  the  drugs 

Required  to  save  thyself. 
Prometlu'-iis.  Harken  the  rest, 

And  marvel  further,  what  more  arts 
and  means 

I    did    invent,  —  this,    greatest:    if    a 
man 

Fell  sick,  there  was  no  cure,  nor  escu- 
lent 

Nor  chrism  nor  liquid,  hut  for  lack  of 
drugs 

Men  pined  and  wasted,  till  I  showed 
them  all 

Those    mixtures    of  emollient    reme- 
dies 

Whereby  they  might  be  rescued  from 
disease. 

I  fixed   the   various  rules  of  mantic 
art. 

Discerned  the  vision  from  the  com- 
mon dream. 

Instructed  them  in  vocal  auguries 

Hard    to    interpret,    and    defined    as 
plain 

The  waysi<le  omens,  —  flights  of  crook- 
clawed  birds, — 

Showed   which    are    by   their   nature 
fortunate, 

And  which  not  so,  and  what  the  food 
of  each, 

And  what  the  hates,  affections,  social 
needs 

Of  all  to  one  another,  —  taught  what 
sign 

Of    visceral    lightness,    colored    to    a 
shade, 

May  charm  the  genial  gods,  and  what 
fair  spots 

Commentl  the  lung  and  liver.     Burn- 
ing so 

The  limbs  incased  in  fat,  and  the  long 
chine, 

I    led    my   mortals   on   to   an    art  ab- 
struse, 

And  cleared  their  eyes  to  the  image  in 
the  fire, 

Erst   filmed   in   dark.      Enough    said 
now  of  this. 

For  the  other  helps  of  man   hid   un- 
derground. 

The   iron  and   the   brass,    silver   and 
gold. 

Can  any  dare  aflfirm  he  found  them 
out 

Before  me?    None,  I  know  !  unless  he 
choose 


To    lie   in   his   vaunt.      In   one   word 

learn  the  whole, — 
That  all   arts  came   to  mortals  from 
Prometheus. 
Choriix.  Give  mortals  now  no  inex- 
pedient help, 
Neglecting  thine  own  sorrow.     I  have 

hope  still 
To  see  tliee,  breaking  from  the  fetter 

here, 
Stand  up  as  strong  as  Zeus. 

Promethcvs.  This  ends  not  thus, 

Tlip  oracular  fate  ordains.     I  must  be 

bowed 
By  infinite  woes  and  pangs  to  escape 

this  cliain. 
Necessity  is  stronger  than  mine  art. 
Chorus.  Who  holds  the  helm  of  that 

Necessity  ? 
Promcthciit:.  The     threefold     Fates 

and  the  unforgetting  Furies. 
Chums.  Is  Zeus  less  absolute  than 

these  are  ? 
Prometheus.  Yea, 

And  therefore  cannot  fly  what  is  or- 
dained. 
Chorus.  What  is  ordained  for  Zeus, 
except  to  be 
A  king  forever  ? 

Prometheus.  'Tis  too  early  yet 

For  thee  to  learn  it:  ask  no  more- 

CJionis.  Perhaps 

Thy  secret  may  be  .something  holy  ? 
Prometheus.  Turn 

To  another  matter:  this,  it  is  not  time 
To  speak  abroad,  but  utterly  to  veil 
In  silence.  Forbythatsamesecretkept, 
I  'scape  this  chain's  dishonor,  and  its 
woe. 

Chonct,  1st  strophe. 
Never,  oh  never. 
May  Zeus,  the  all-giver, 
W^restle  down  from  his  throne 
In  that  might  of  his  own 
To  antagonize  mine  ! 
Nor  let  me  delay  < 

As  I  bend  on  my  way 
Toward  the  gods  of  the  shrine 
W^here  the  altar  is  full 
Of  the  blood  of  the  bull. 
Near  the  tossing  brine 
Of  Ocean  my  father. 
May  no  sin  lie  sjied  in  the  word  that 

is  said. 
But  my  vow  be  rather 
Consummated, 
Nor  evermore    fail,   nor    evermore 

pine. 


riiOMI-.THEUS   BOUND. 


l>it  antistrophe. 
'Tis  sweet  to  liave 

Life  lengthened  out 
With  hopes  proved  brave 

Bv  the  very  doubt, 
Till' the  spirit  infold 
Those    manifest    joys   wliieli    were 
foretold. 
But  I  tlirill  to  behold 

Thee,  victim  doomed, 
By  the  countless  cares 
And  the  drear  despairs 
Forever  consumed,  — 
And  all  because  thou,  who  art  fear- 
less now 
Of  Zeus  above. 
Didst  overflow  for  mankind  below 
With  a  free-souled,  reverent  love. 

All,  friend,  behold  and  see  ! 
What's  all  the  beauty  <jf  humanity  ? 

Can  it  be  fair  ? 
What's    all    the    strength  ?    Is    it 
strong  ? 
And  what  hope  can  they  bear, 
These  dying  livers,  living  one  dav 
long? 
Ah,  seest  thou  not,  my  friend. 
How  feeble  and  slow. 
And  like  a  dream,  doth  go 
This   i)Oor   blind  manhood,  drifted 
from  its  end '? 
And   how   no   mortal  wrauglings 
can  confuse 
The  harmony  of  Zeus  ? 

Prometheus,     I     ha\e     learnt     these 
things 
From  the  sorrow  in  thy  face. 

Another  song  did  fold  its  wings 
Upon  my  lips  in  other  days, 
When   round   the   liath   and  round 

the  bed 
Tlie  hymeneal  chant  instead 

I  sang  for  thee,  and  smiled. 
And  thou  didst  lead,  with  gifts  and 
vows, 
Hesione,  my  father's  child, 
To  be  thy  wedded  spouse. 

lo  enters. 

I'j.  What  land  is  this  ?  what  people 
is  here  ? 
And  who  is  he  that  writhes,  I  see, 

In  the  rock-hung  chain  ? 
Now  what  is  the    crime    that    hath 

brouglit  thee  to  pain  ? 
Now  what  is  the  land  —  make  answer 
free  — 


Which  I  wander  tlirougli  in  my  wrong 

and  fear  ? 
Ah,  ah,  ah  me  ! 
The  gad-fly  stingeth  to  agony  ! 
O  Earth,  keep  off  that  pliantasm  pale 
Of  earth-born  Argus  !  —  ah  !  I  quail 

When  my  soul  descries 
That  herdsman  with  the  myriad  eyes 
Which  seem,  as  he  comes,  one  crafty 

eye. 
Graves    hide    liim     not,    thougli     he 

should  die; 
But  he  doggeth  me  in  my  misery 
From  the  roots  of  dc>atli,  on  high,  on 

high; 
And   along  the  sands   of    the   siding 

deep. 
All  famine-worn,  he  follows  me, 
And  his  waxen  reed  doth  under.sound 

The  waters  round. 
And   giveth   a  measure    that    giveth 

sleej). 

Woe,  woe,  woe  ! 
Where    shall    my    weary    course    be 

done  ? 
What  wouldst  thou  with  me,  Saturn's 

son  ? 
And   in  what  have   I  sinned,  that  I 

should  go 
Thus   yoked   to   grief   by  tliine  hand 
forever  ? 
Ah,  ah  !  dost  vex  me  so 

That  I  madden  and  shiver 
Stung  through  with  dread  ? 
Flasli  the  fire  down  to  burn  me  ! 
Heave  the  earth  w])  to  cover  me  ! 
Plunge  me  in  the  deep,  with  the  salt 
waves  over  me. 
That  the  sea-beasts  may  be  fed  ! 

0  king  do  not  spurn  me 

In  my  prayer  ! 
For     this    wandering     everlouger, 
evermore, 

Hath  overworn  me, 
And  I  know  not  on  what  shore 

1  may  rest  from  my  desimir. 

C'hurtis.  Hearest  thou  what  the  ox- 
horned  maiden  saith  ? 

Prometheus.  How    could    I    choose 

but  harken  what  she  saith, 
The     frenzied     maiden  ?  —  Inachus's 

child?  — 
Who  love-warms   Zeus's  heart,   and 

now  is  lashed 
By  Here's  hate  along  the  unending 

ways? 


23C 


ntOMETHE  US   BO  UN  J). 


Jo.  Wlio  taught  tlipfi  to  articulate 
that  name,  — 
My  father's  ?     Speak  to  his  child 
By  grief  and  shame  defiled  ! 
Who  art  thou,  victim,  thou  who  dost 

acclaim 
Mine   anguish   in   true  words  on  the 

wide  air, 
And  callest,  too,  by  name  the  curse 
that  came 
From  Here  unaware, 
To  waste  and  pierce  me  with  its  mad- 
dening goad  ? 
Ah,  ah,  I  leap 
With  the  pang  of  the  hungry;  I  hound 
on  the  road; 
I  am  driven  by  my  doom ; 
I  am  overcome 
By  the  wrath  of  an  enemy  strong  and 

deep ! 
Are   any  of  those  who  liave    tasted 
pain, 
Alas  !  as  wretched  as  I  ? 
Now  tell  me  plain,  doth  aught  remain 
For  my  soul  to  endure  beneath  the  sky? 
Is  there  any  help  to  be  holpen  by  ? 
If  knowledge  be  in    thee,   let  it  be 
said  ! 
Cry  aloud  —  crj- 
To  the  wandering,  woful  maid. 

Promethena.  Whatever  thou  wouldst 
learn,  I  will  declare; 
No    riddle   upon    my   lips,   but    such 

straight  words 
As  friends  should  use  to  each   other 

when  they  talk. 
Thou    seest    Prometheus,   who    gave 
mortals  fire. 
lo.  O    common    help    of    all    men, 
known  of  all, 
O    miserable    Prometheus,   for   what 

cause 
Dost  thou  endui-c  thus  ? 

Prometheus.    I  have  done  with  wail 
For  my  own  griefs  but  lately. 

lo.  Wilt  thou  not 

Vouchsafe  the  boon  to  me  ? 

Promethens.        Say  what  thou  wilt. 
For  I  vouchsafe  all. 

lo.  Si>cak,  then,  and  reveal 

Who  shut  thee  in  this  chasm. 

Prometheus.  The  will  of  Zeus, 

The  hand  of  his  Hepbiestus 
lo.  ■     " 


Dost  expiate  so  ? 

PrometheKS. 
liave  told 
In  so  nnu?h  onlv. 


And  what  crime 
Enouiih   for  thee  I 


lo.  Nay,  but  show  besides 

The  limit  of  iny  wandering,  and  the 

time 
Which   yet    is    lacking    to    fulfil   my 
grief. 
Prometheus.  Why,  not  to  know  were 
better  than  to  know 
For  such  as  thou. 

lo.  Beseech  thee,  blind  me  not 

To  that  which  I  must  sutfer. 

Prometheus.  If  I  do. 

The    reason  is  not  tliat  I  grudge  a 
boon. 
/').  What  reason,  then,  prevents  thy 

speaking  out? 
Prometheus.  No    grudging,     but    a 

fear  to  break  thine  heart. 
/').  Less  care  for  me,  I  pray  thee. 
Certainty 
I  count  for  advantage. 

Prometlu'u.t.       Thou  wilt  have  it  so, 
And   therefore   I   must   speak.     Now 
liear  — 
Chorus.  Not  yet. 

Give  half  the  guerdon  my  way.    Let 

us  learn 
First  what  the  curse  is  that  befell  the 

maid. 
Her  own  voice  telling  her  own  wast- 
ing woes : 
The  sequence  of  that  anguish  shall 

await 
The  teaching  of  thy  lips. 

Prometheus.  It  doth  behoove 

That  thou,  maid  lo,  shouldst  vouch- 
safe to  these 
The  grace  they  pray,  —  the  more,  be- 
cause they  are  called 
Thy  father's  sisters;  since  to  open  out 
And  mourn  out  grief,  where  it  is  pos- 
sible 
To  draw  a  tear  from  the  audience,  is 

a  work 
That  pays  its  own  price  well. 

lo.       "  I  cannot  choose 

But  trust  you,  nymphs,  and  tell  you 

all  ye  ask, 
In   clear  'words,  though   I   sob   amid 

my  speech 
In  speaking  of  the   storm-curse  sent 

from  Zeus, 
And  of  my  beauty,  from  which  height 

it  took 
Its  swoop  on  me,  poor  wretch  !  left 

thus  deformed 
And  monstrous    to    your  eyes.     For 

evermore 
Around  my  virgin-chamber,  wander- 
ing went 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND. 


237 


The  nightly  visions  which   entreatad 

me 
With  syllabled  smooth    sweetness.  — 

"  Blessetl  maid, 
Why  lengthen  out  thy  maiden  liours. 

when  fate 
Permits  the    noblest  spousal    in   the 

world  ? 
When  Zeus  burns' with  the  arrow  of 

thy  love. 
And  fain  would  touch  thy  beauty?  — 

jMaiden,  thou 
Despise  not  Zeus !  depart  to  Lerne's 

mead 
That's    green     around     thy    father's 

tlocks  and  stalls, 
Until   the   passion    of    the    heavenly 

Eye 
Be  quenched  in  sight."     Such  dreams 

did  all  night  long 
Constrain  me,  —  me,  unhappy  !  —  till  I 

dared 
To  tell  my  father  how  they  trod  the 

dark 
With    visionary   steps.     AVhereat    he 

sent 
His  frequent  heralds  t<j  the   Tythian 

fane. 
And  also  to  Dodona,  and  iuijitired 
How  best,  by  act  or  sjieech,  to  please 

the  gods. 
The    same    returning    brought    back 

oracles 
Of  doubtful  sense,  indefinite  response, 
Dark  to  interpret;  but  at  last  there 

came 
To  Inachus  an  answer  that  was  clear, 
Thrown    straight    as    any    bolt,    and 

spoken  out,  — 
This:  "  He  should  drive  me  from  my 

home  and  land, 
And  bid  me  wander   to  the  extreme 

verge 
Of   all    the  earth;    or,  if   lie-  willed  it 

not. 
Should   have  a  thunder  with  a   tiery 

eye 
Leap  straight   from  Zeus  to  burn  up 

all  his  race 
To   the   last   root   of  it."     By   which 

Loxian  word 
Subdued,  he  drove  me  forth,  and  shut 

me  out. 
He  loath,  me  loath;  but  Zeus's  violent 

bit 
Compelled  him  to  the  deed :  when  in- 
stantly 
My  body  and  soul  were  changed  and 

distraught, 


And,  horned  as  ye  see,  and  spurred 
along 

By  the  fanged  insect,  with  a  maniac 
leap 

I  rushed  on  to  Cenchrea's  limjiid 
stream. 

And  Lerne's  fountain-water.  There, 
the  earth-born, 

The  herdsman  Argus,  most  immitiga- 
ble 

Of  wrath,  did  find  me  out,  and  track 
me  out 

With  countless  eyes  set  staring  at  my 
steps; 

And  though  an  unexpected  sudden 
doom 

Drew  him  from  life,  I,  curse-torment- 
ed still. 

Am  driven  from  land  to  land  before 
the  scourge 

The  gods  hold  o'er  me.  So  thou  hast 
heard  the  past; 

And,  if  a  bitter  future  thou  canst  tell. 

Speak  on.  I  charge  thee,  do  not  flat- 
ter me. 

Through  pity,  with  false  words;  for 
in  my  mind 

Deceiving  works  more  shame  than 
torturing  doth. 

Chorus. 

Ah,  silence  here  ! 

Nevermore,  nevermoi'e, 

Would  I  languish  for 

The  stranger's  word 

To  thrill  in  mine  ear  — 
Nevermore  for  the  wrong  and  the  woe 
and  the  fear 

So  hard  to  ])eliold. 

So  cruel  to  bear, 
Piercing  my  soul  with  a  double-edged 
sword 

Of  a  sliding  cold. 

Ah,  Fate  !  ah,  me  ! 

I  shudder  to  see 
This  wandering  maid  in  her  agony. 

Pi-omcthciis.  Grief   is   too   quick    in 
thee,  and  fear  too  full: 
Be  patient  till  tht)U  hast  learnt  the  r(>sT. 

Choj-Ks.         Speak:  teach,   > 
To    those    who    are    sad    alreadj',    it 

seems  sweet. 
By  clear  foreknowledge  to  make  per- 
fect, pain. 
Prometheus.  The  boon  ye  asked  me 
first  was  lightly  won; 
For  tirst  ye   asked   the  story  of  this 
maid's  grief. 


I 
h-»Hi  I  ^m      I 


I 


238 


rnOMETHEUS   BOUND. 


As  her  own  lips  might  tell  it.     Now 

reiuains 
To    list   what   other   sorrows   she   so 

young 
Must    ])ear    from    Here.       Inachns's 

child, 
O    thou  !    drop    down    thy   soul    my 

weighty  words, 
And    measure     out     the     landmarks 

which  are  set 
To  end  thy  wandering.     Toward  the 

orient  sun 
First   turn   thy  face  from    mine,  and 

journey  on 
Along  the  desert-flats  till  tliou  shalt 

come 
Where     Scythia's     shepherd-peoples 

dwell  aloft, 
Perched    in   wheeled    wagons    under 

woven  roofs, 
And  twang  the  rapid  arrow  past  the 

liow. 
.A]>proach   them    not,    but,   siding   in 

thy  course 
The  rugged  sliore-rocks   resonant   to 

the  sea. 
Dc])art    that    country.      On   the    left 

hand  dwell 
Th(!  iron-workers,  calh^d   the   Chaly- 

hes. 
Of  whom  beware,  for  certes  they  are 

uncouth. 
And     nowise     bland     to     strangers. 

Reaching  so 
The     stream     Hybristes     (well     the 

scorner  called). 
Attempt  no  pa.ssage, — it   is   hard   to 

pass,  — 
Or  ere  thou  come  to  Caucasus  itself. 
That  highest  of  mountains,  where  the 

river  leaps 
The  [)recipice  in  his  strength.     Thou 

must  toil  up 
Those    mountain-tops    that   neighbor 

with  the  stars. 
And  tread  the  soutli  way,  and  draw- 
near,  at  last, 
Tlu;    Amazonian     host     that    hateth 

man. 
Inhabitants  of  Themiscyra,  close 
Upon    Thernjodon,    where   the    sea's 

rough  jaw 
Doth  gnash  at  Salmydessa,  and  ]>ro- 

vide 
A  cruel  host  to  seamen,  and  to  ships 
A  stepdame.     They,  with  unreluctant 

hand, 
Shall   lead   thee   on  aud  on  till  thou 

arrive 


Just  where  the  ocean-gates  show  nar- 
rowest 

On  the  Cimmerian  isthmus.    Leaving 
which, 

Behooves  thee  swim  with  fortitude  of 
soul 

The    strait  Mseotis.      Ay,   and   ever- 
more 

That    traverse    shrfll    be    famous   on 
men's  lips. 

That    strait     called     Bosphorus,    the 
horned  one's  road, 

So   named    because   of   thee,  who   so 
wilt  pass 

From  Europe's  ]ilain  to  Asia's  conti- 
nent. 

How  think  ye,  nymplis  ?  the  king  of 
gods  appears 

Impartial   in    ferocitms   deeds?      Be- 
hold ! 

The  god  desirous  of  this  mortal's  love 

Hath  cursed  lier  with  these  wander- 
ings.    Ah,  fair  child, 

Thou  hast  met  a  bitter  groom  for  bri- 
dal troth  ! 

For  all  thou  yet  hast  heard  can  only 
prove 

The  incompleted  ])reludeof  thy  doom. 
lo.  Ah,  ah  ! 

Prometheus.  Is't   tlij-    turn    now   to 
shriek  and  moan  " 

How  wilt  thou,  when  thou  hast  bar- 
kened what  remains? 
Chorus.  Besides  the  grief  thou  liast 

told,  can  aught  remain  ? 
Prometheus.  A   sea   of    foredoomed 

evil  worked  to  storm. 
III.  What  boots  juy  life,  then  ?   why 
not  cast  myself 

Down    headlong  from  this  miserable 
rock, 

That,  dashed  against  the  flats,  I  may 
redeem 

My  soul    -from  sorrow  ?    Better  once 
to  die 

Than  day  by  day  to  stiffer. 

Protnetheiis.  Verily, 

It  would  be  hard  for  thee  to  bear  my 
woe 

For  whom  it  is  appointed  not  to  die. 

Death  frees  from  woe;   but  I  befoj-e 
me  see 

In  all  my  far  prevision  not  a  bound 

To  all  I  suffer,  ere  that  Zeus  shall  fall 

From  being  a  king. 
lo.  And  can  it  ever  Ix- 

That  Zeus  sliall  fall  from  empire  ? 
Primiethcus.  Thou,  methinks, 

Wouldst  take  some  joy  to  see  it. 


PROM KTUE US   BO UND. 


239 


lo.  Could  I  choose  ? 

/  who  endure  siicli  i)ano;s  now,  by  that 
god  ! 
Prometheus.  Learn  Ironi  me,  there- 
fore, that  the  event  sliall  be. 
lo.  By    wlioni    shall     his     imperial 
sceptred  hand 
Be  emptied  so  ? 

Prometheus.      Himself     shall     sjioil 
himself, 
Throufih  his  idiotic  counsels. 

lo.  How?  declare, 

Unless  the  word  bring  evil. 

Prometheus.  He  shall  wed. 

And  in  the  marriage-bond  be  joined 
to  grief. 
lo.  A  heavenly  bride,  or   human  ? 
Speak  it  out, 
If  it  be  utterable. 

Prometheus.  Why  should  I  .sav 

which  ? 
It  ought  not  to  be  uttered,  verily. 

lo.  Then 

It  is  his  wife  shall  tear  him  from  his 
throne  ? 
Prometheus.  It  is  his  wife  shall  bear 
a  sou  to  him 
More  mighty  than  tlie  father. 

To.  From  this  doom 

Hath  lie  no  refuge  ? 

Prometheus.         None:  or  ere  that  I 
Loosed  from  these  fetters  — 

lo.  Yea;  bvit  who  shall  loose 

While  Zeus  is  adverse  ? 

Prometheus.  Onewho  is  born  of  thee : 
It  is  ordained  so. 

lo.  What  is  this  thou  sayest  ? 

A  son  of    mine  shall    liberate    thee 
from  w'oe  ? 
Prometlieiis.  After  ten  generations 
count  three  more, 
And  find  him  in  the  third. 

lo.  The  oracle 

Remains  obscure. 

Prometheus.  And   search    it   not   to 
learn 
Thine  own  griefs  from  it. 

lo.  Point  me  not  to  a  good 

To  leave  me  straight  bereaved. 

Prometheus.  I  am  prepared 

To  grant  thee  one  of  two  things. 

lo.  But  which  two  ? 

Set  them  before  me;  grant  me  jiower 

to  choose. 

Prometheus.  I  grant  it;  choose  now! 

Shall  I  name  aloud 

What  griefs  remain  to  wound  thee, 

or  what  hand 
Shall  save  me  out  of  mine  V 


Chorus.  Vouchsafe,  O  god, 

The  one  grace  of  the   twain  to  her 

who  prays, 
The  next  to  me,  and  turn  back  nei- 
ther prayer 
Dishonored  by  denial.     To  herself 
Recount  the  future  wandering  of  her 

feet; 
Then   point   me  to  the  looser  of   thy 

chain, 
Because  I  yearn  to  know  him. 

Prometheus.  Since  ye  will. 

Of  absolute  will,  this  knowledge,  I 

will  set 
No  contrary  against  it,  nor  keep  back 
A  word  of  all  ye  ask  for.     lo,  first 
To  thee  I  must  relate  thy  wandering 

course 
Far  winding.     As   I   tell   it,  write   it 

down 
In     thy    soul's     book    of    memories. 

When  thou  hast  past 
The  refluent  bound  that  jiarts   two 

continents, 
Track  on  the  footsteps  of  the  orient 

sun 
In   his   own    tire   across    the   roar   of 

seas,  — 
Fly  till  thou  hast   reached   the   Gor- 

gona^an  flats 
Beside   Cisthene.     There  the  Phorci- 

des. 
Three    ancient    maidens,    live,    with 

shape  of  swan, 
One   tooth   between    them,   and    one 

common  eye. 
On  whom  the  sun  doth  n<'ver  look  at 

all 
With  all  his  rays,  nor  evermore  the 

moon 
M'hen   she    looks   through  the  night. 

Auear  to  whom 
Are    the    Gorgon    sisters    three,    en- 

clotheel  with  wings. 
With     twisted     snakes    for    ringlets, 

man-abhorred : 
There  is  no  mortal  gazes  in  their  face, 
And  gazing  can  breathe  on.     I  speak 

of  such 
To  guard  thee  from  their  horror.    Ay, 

and  list 
Another  tale  of  a  dreadful  sight:  be- 
ware 
The  Griffins,  those  unbarking  dogs  of 

Zeus, 
Those     sharp-mouthed     dogs! — and 

the  Arimaspian  host 
Of   one-eyed   horsemen,  habiting  be- 
side 


240 


PROMETHEUS   BO  VXD. 


The  river  of  Pluto  that  runs  bright 

with  gold: 
Approach    thein    not,   beseech    thee. 

Presently 
Thon'lt  come   to    a    distant    land,    a 

dusky  tribe 
Of    dwellers   at  the   fountain   of   the 

Sun, 
Whence    Hows    the    River  ^Ethiops; 

wind  along 
Its  lianks,  and  turn  off  at  the  cata- 
racts, 
Just  as  the  Nile  pours  from  the  Byb- 

line  hills 
His  holy  and  sweet  wave:  his  course 

shall  guide 
Thine  own  to  that  triangular  Nile- 
ground 
Where,  lo,  is  ordained  for  thee  and 

thine 
A  lengthened  exile.    Have  I  said  in 

this 
Aught     darkly     or    incompletely?  — 

now  repeat 
The   question,  make   the   knowledge 

fuller  !     Lo, 
I  have  more  leisure  than  I  covet  here. 
Chords.  If  thou  canst  tell  us  aught 

that's  left  untold. 
Or   loosely  told,  of  her  most  dreary 

flight, 
Declare  it  straight;  but,  if  thou  hast 

uttered  all, 
Grant  us  that  latter  grace  for  which 

we  prayed, 
liemembering  Low  we  prayed  it. 

I'roiiietheiis.  She  lias  heard 

The    uttermost    of    her    wandering. 

There  it  ends. 
But,  that  she  may  be  certain  not  to 

have  heard 
All  vainly,  I  will  speak  what  she  en- 
dured 
Ere  coming  hither,  and  invoke  the 

past 
To  prove   my  prescience   true.     And 

so  —  to  leave 
A  multitude  of  words,  and  pass  at 

once 
To  the  subject  of  thy  course  —  when 

thou  hadst  gone 
To     those     Molossian    ])lains    which 

sweep  around 
Dodona  shouldering  Heaven,  where- 
by the  fane 
Of  Zeus  Thesprotian  keepeth  oracle, 
And,  wonder  past  belief,  where  oaks 

do  wave 
Articulate  adjurations  —  (ay,  the  same 


Saluted  thee  in  no  perplexed  phrase, 
But  clear  with   glory,  noble  wife   of 

Zeus 
That  shouldst  be,  there  some  sweet- 
ness took  thy  sense  !) 
Thou     didst     rush    further    onward, 

stung  along 
The      ocean-shore,      toward     Rhea's 

mighty  bay. 
And,  tost  back  from  it,  wast  tost  to  ir- 

again 
In  stormy  evolution:  and  know  well. 
In  coming  time  that  hollow  of  the  sea 
Shall  bear  the  name  Ionian,  and  pre- 
sent 
A  monument  of  lo's  passage  Through, 
Unto  all  mortals.    Be  these  words  the 

signs 
Of   my  soul's  jiower  to  look   beyoml 

the  veil 
Of  visible   things.     The   rest   to   you 

and  her 
I  will  deelai'e  in  common  audience, 

nymphs, 
Returning   thither  where   my  speech 

brake  off. 
There  is  a  town,  Canobus,  built  upon 
The  earth's  fair  margin,  at  the  month 

of  Nile, 
And  on  the  mound  washed  up  by  it: 

lo,  there 
Shall  Zeus  give  back  to  thee  thy  jjcr- 

fect  mind, 
And   only   by   the   pressure   and   the 

touch 
Of  a  hand  not  terrible;   and  thou  to 

Zeus 
Shalt  bear  a  dusky  son  who  shall  be 

called 
Thence  Epajihns,  Tom-hed.     That  son 

shall  pluck  the  fruit 
Of  all  that  land  wide-watered  by  the 

rtow 
Of  Nile;  but  after  him,  when  counting 

out 
As   far  as  the  fifth   full  generation, 

then 
Full  fifty  maidens,  a  fair  woman-race. 
Shall  back  to  Argos  turn  reluctantly, 
To  tiy  the  proffered  nuj^tials  of  their 

kin, 
Their  father's  brothers.     The.se  being 

]>assion-struck , 
Like   falcons   l.iearing  hard  on  flying 

doves. 
Shall    follow  hunting   at  a  quarry  of 

love 
They   should   not  hunt;    till   envious 

Heaven  maintain 


i 


"T 


rROMETHEUS  BOUND. 


241 


A  curse  betwixt  tliat  beauty  and  their 

desire, 
And  Greece  receive  them,  to  be  over- 
come 
In   imirtherous  woman-war  liy  fierce 

red  hands 
Kept  savage  by  the  night.     For  every 

wife 
Shall  slay  a  husband,  dyeing  deeji  in 

blood 
Tlie  sword  of  a  double  edge  —  (I  wish 

indeed 
As  fair  a  marriage-joy  to  all  my  foes  !) 
One  bride  alone  shall  fail  to  smite  to 

death 
The  liead  upon  her  pillow,  touched 

with  love. 
Made  impotent  of  purpose,  and   im- 

l^elled 
To  choose  the  lesser  evil,  —  shame  on 

her  cheeks. 
Than  blood-guilt  on  her  hands;  which 

bride  sliall  bear 
A  royal  race  in  Argos.    Tedious  speech 
AVere  needed  to  relate  particulars 
Of  these  things;  'tis  enough  that  from 

her  seed 
Shall   spring  the  strong  He,  famous 

with  the  bow, 
Whose  arm  shall  break  my  fetters  off. 

Behold, 
My  mother  Themis,  that  old  Titaness, 
Delivered  to  me  such  an  oracle; 
But  how  and  when,  I  should  l)e  long 

to  speak, 
And    thou,   in   hearing,    wouldst  not 

gain  at  all. 

/('.    Eleleu,  eleleu  ! 
How  the  spasm  and  the  pain, 
And  the  fire  on  the  l)rain, 
Strike,  burning  me  through  ! 
How  the  sting  of  the  curse,  all  aflame 
as  it  flew, 
Pricks  me  onward  again  ! 
How  my  heart  in  its  terror  is  spurning 

my  breast. 
And  my  eyes  like  the  wheels  of  a 

chariot  roll  round  ! 
I  am  whirled  from  my  course,  to  the 

east,  to  the  west. 
In  the  whirlwind  of  frenzy  all  mad- 
ly inwound; 
And  my  mouth  is  unbridled    for  an- 
guish and  hate. 
And  my  words  beat  in  vain,  in  wild 
storms  of  unrest, 
On  the  sea  of  my  desolate  fate. 

[To  t-usUes  out. 


Chorus,  —  strophe. 
Oh,  wise  was  he,  oh,  wise  was  he, 
Who  first  within  his  spirit  knew, 
And  with  his  tongue  declared  it  true, 
That  love  comes  best  that  cijmes  unto 

The  equal  of  degree  ! 
And  that  the  poor  and  that  the  low 
Should  seek  no  love  from  those  above, 
Whose  souls  are   fluttered  witli   the 

flow 
Of  airs  about  their  golden  height. 
Or  proud  because  they  see  arow 
Ancestral  crowns  of  light. 

Antisfrophr. 
Oh.  never,  never,  may  ye,  Fates, 

Behohl  me  with  your  awful  eyes 

Lift  mine  too  fondly  up  the  skies 
Where  Zeus  upon  the  purple  waits  ! 

Nor  let  me  step  too  near,  too  near, 
To  any  suitor  bright  from  heaven; 

Because  I  see,  because  I  fear. 
This  loveless  maiden  vexed  and  laden 
By  this  fell  curse  of  Here,  driven 

On  wanderings  dread  and  drear. 


Nay,  grant  an  equal  troth  instead 

Of  nujitial  love,  to  bind  me  by  ! 

It  will  not  hurt,  I  shall  not  dread 

To  meet  it  in  reply. 
But  let  not  love  from  those  above 
Revert  and  fix  me,  as  I  said. 
With  that  inevitable  Eye  ! 
I  have  no  sword  to  fight  that  fight, 
I   have    no    strength    to    tread   that 

path, 
I  know  not  if  my  nature  hath 
The  power  to  l)ear,  I  cannot  see 
Whither  from  Zeus's  infinite 
I  have  the  power  to  flee. 

Promcthcns.  Yet  Zeus,  albeit  most 

absolute  of  will. 
Shall  turn  to  meekness,  —  such  a  mar- 
riage-rite 
He  holds  in  preparation,  which  anon 
Shall  thrust  him   headlong  from  his 

gerent  seat 
Adown  the  abysmal  void;  and  so  the 

curse 
His  father  Chronos  muttered  in   his 

fall. 
As  he  fell  from  his  ancient  throne  and 

cursed, 
Shall    be  accomplished  wholly.    No 

escape 
From    all    tliat    ruin    shall    the   filial 

Zeus 


242 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND. 


to  liiDj  from  any  of  his 
him.     I    the    refuge 


Now,  therefore, 


Find  granteil 

gods, 
Unless   I   teach 

know, 
And  I,  the  means. 

let  him  sit 
And  brave  the  imminent  doom,  and 

lix  his  faith 
On  his  supernal  noise.s  hurtling  on 
With    restless    hand    the    bolt    that 

breathes  out  fire: 
For  these  things  shall  not  help  him, 

none  of  them, 
Nor  hinder  his  perdition  when  he  falls 
To  shame,  and   lower  than  patience: 

such  a  foe 
He  doth  himself  prepare  against  him- 
self, 
A  wonder  of  unconquerable  hate, 
An  organizer  of  suhlimer  fire 
Than    glares    in    lightnings,    and    of 

grander  sound 
Than  aught  the  thunder  rolls,   out- 
thundering  it, 
With  jiowerto  shatter  in  Poseidon's 

fist 
The    trident-spear,    which,    while 

plagues  the  sea, 
Doth    shake    the    shores    around 

Ay,  and  Zeus, 
Precipitated     thus,     shall     learn 

length 
The  difference  betwixt  rule  and  servi- 
tude. 
Chorus.  Thou    makest    threats    for 

Zeus  of  thy  desires. 
Prometheus.  1    tell    you    all    these 

things  shall  be  fulfilled 
Even  so  as  I  desire  them. 

Chorus.  Must  we,  then. 

Look  ovit  for  one  shall  come  to  master 

Zeus? 
Prometheus.     These    chains    weigh 

lighter  than  his  sorrows  shall. 
Cliorvs.    How  art  thou  not  afraid 

to  utter  such  words  ? 
Prometheus.    What  should  /  fear, 

who  cannot  die  ? 
Chorus.  But  he 

Can  visit  thee  with  dreader  woe  than 

death's. 
Prometheus.    Why,  let  him  do  it! 

I  am  here,  prepared 
For  all  things  and  their  pangs. 

Chorus.  The  wise  are  they 

Who  reverence  Adrasteia. 

Prometheus.  Reverence  thou. 

Adore  thou,  flatter  thou,  whomever 

reigus, 


it 


it. 


at 


Whenever  reigning!  But  forme,  your 
Zeus 

Is  less  than  nothing.  Let  him  act  and 
reign 

His  brief  hour  out  according  to  his 
will: 

He  will  not,  therefore,  rule  the  gods 
too  long. 

But  lo!  I  see  that  courier-god  of  Zeus, 

That  new-made  menial  of  the  new- 
crowned  king: 

He,  doubtless,  comes  to  announce  to 
us  something  new. 

Hermes  enters. 
Hermes.    I  speak  to  thee,  the  soph- 
ist, the  talker-down 

Of  scorn  by  scorn,  the  sinner  against 
gods. 

The  reverencer  of  men,  the  thief  of 
fire,  — 

I  speak  to  thee  and  adjure  thee: 
Zeus  requires 

Thy  declaration  of  what  marriage-rite 

Thus  moves  thy  vaunt,  and  shall  here- 
after cause 

His  fall  from  empire.  Do  not  wrap 
thj'  speecla 

In  riddles,  but  speak  clearly.  Never 
cast 

Ambiguous  paths,  Prometheus,  for 
my  feet, 

Since  Zeus,  thou  mayst  perceive,  is 
scarcely  won 

To  mercy  by  such  means. 
Prometheus.  A  speech  well- 

mouthed 

In  the  utterance,  and  full-minded  in 
the  sense, 

As  doth  befit  a  servant  of  the  gods! 

New  gods,  ye  newly  reign,  and  think, 
forsooth, 

Ye  dwell  in  towers  too  high  for  any 
dart 

To  carry  awoxxnd  there  !  Have  I  not 
stood  by 

While  two  kings  fell  from  thence  ? 
and  shall  I  not 

Behold  the  third,  the  same  who  rules 
you  now, 

Fall,  shamed  to  sudden  ruin?  Do  I 
seem 

To  tremble  and  quail  before  your 
modern  gods  ? 

Far  be  it  from  me  !  For  thyself,  de- 
part; 

Re-tread  thy  steps  in  haste.  To  All 
thou  hast  asked 

I  answer  nothing. 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND. 


243 


Hirnii  s.  Such  a  wind  of  pride 

Impelled  thee  of  yore  full  sail  upon 
these  rocks. 
Prometheus.     I  would  not  barter  — 
learn  thou  soothl y  that !  — 
My  suffering  for  thy  service.     I  main- 
tain 
It   is   a   nobler   thing  to  serve  these 

rocks 
Than  live  a  faithful  slave  to  father 

Zeus. 
Thus    upon    scorners    I    retort  their 
scorn. 
Hermes.    It  seems  that  thou   dost 

glory  in  thy  despair. 
Prometheus.     I   glory  ?     Would  my 
foes  did  glory  so, 
And  I  stood  by  to  see  them!  —  naming 

wliom, 
Thou  art  not  unremembered. 

Hermes.  Dost  thou  cliarge 

Me  also  Avith  the  blame  of  thy  mis- 
chance ? 
Prometheus.    1  tell  thee  I  loathe  the 
universal  gods, 
Who,  for  tlie  good  I  gave  them,  ren- 
dered back 
The  ill  of  their  injustice. 

Hermes.  Thou  art  mad, 

Thou  art  raving,  Titan,  at  the  fever- 
height. 
Prometheus.    If    it  be  madness  to 
abhor  my  foes, 
May  I  be  mad  ! 

Hermes.        If  thou  wert  jirosperous. 
Thou  wouldst  be  unendurable. 
Prometheus.  Alas! 

Hermes.      Zeus     knows    not    that 

word. 
Prometheus.        But  maturing  Time 
Teaches  all  things. 
Hermes.     Howbeit,   thou    hast    not 
learnt 
The  wisdom  yet,  thou  needest. 

Prometheus.  If  I  had, 

I  should  not  talk  thus  with  a  slave 
like  thee. 
Hermes.    No  answer    thou    vouch- 
safest,  I  believe. 
To  the  great  Sire's  requirement. 

Prometheus.  Verily 

I  owe  him  grateful  service,  and  shoiUd 
pay  it. 
Hermes.    Why,  thou  dost  mock  me, 
Titan,  as  I  stood 
A  child  before  thy  face. 

PrometheAis.  No  child,  forsooth, 

But  yet  more  foolish  than  'a  foolish 
child, 


If  thou  expect  that  I  should  answer 

aught 
Thy  Zeus  can  ask.     No  torture  frotn 

his  hand. 
Nor  any  machination  in  the  world, 
Shall    force    mine    utterance    ere  he 

loose,  himself. 
These    cankerous    fetters    from    me. 

For  the  rest, 
Let  him  now  hurl  his  blanching  light- 
nings down. 
And   with   his  white-winged  snows, 

and  mutterings  deei) 
Of    subterranean   thunders,   mix    all 

things. 
Confound  them  in  disorder.     None  of 

this 
Shall  bend  my  sturdy  will,  and  make 

me  speak 
The  name  of  his  dethroner  who  shall 

come. 
Hermes.     Can  this  avail  thee?    Look 

to  it  ! 
Prometheus.  Long  ago 

It  was   looked   forward  to,  jirecoun- 

selled  of. 
Hermes.     Vain  god,  take   righteous 

courage!     Dare  for  once 
To  apprehend  and  front  thine  agonies 
With  a  just  prudence. 

Prometheus.    Vainly  dost  thou  chafe 
My  soul  with  exhortation,  as  yonder 

sea 
Goes  beating  on  the  rock.    Oh!  think 

no  more 
That  I,  fear-struck  by  Zeus  to  a  wo- 
man's mind. 
Will  supjilicate  him,  loathed  as  he  is, 
With  feminine  upliftings  of  myhands. 
To  break  these  chains.     Far  from  me 

be  the  thought! 
Hermes.  I  have  indeed,   methinks, 

said  much  in  vain. 
For  still  thy  heart  beneath  my  show- 
ers of  prayers 
Lies  dry  and  hard,  nay,  leaps  like  a 

young  horse 
Who  bites  against  the  new  bit  in  his 

teeth. 
And   tugs   and   struggles  against  the 

new-tried  rein. 
Still  fiercest  in  the  feeblest  thing   of 

all, 
Wliicli  sophism  is;  since  absolute  will 

(.lisjoined 
From    perfect    mind    is    worse    than 

weak.     Behold, 
Unless  my  words  persuade  thee,  what 

a  blast 


—  I  — 


i 


244 


PROMETHEUS   BOUND. 


And  wliii-lwind  of  inevitable  woe 
Must  sweep  persuasion  through  thee  ! 

For  at  first 
The  Father  will   split  up  this  jut  of 

rock 
With    the    great     thunder    and     the 

bolted  tlame, 
And  liide  thy  body  where  a  hinge  of 

stone 
Shall  catch  it  like  an  arm;  and,  when 

thou  hast  passed 
A  long  black  time  witliin,  thou  shalt 

come  out 
To  front  the  svm  while  Zeiis's  winged 

hound, 
The  strong,  carnivorous   eagle,  shall 

wheel  down 
To  meet  thee,  self-called  to  a  daily 

feast, 
And  set  his  fierce  beak  in  thee,  and 

tear  off 
The  long  rags  of  thy  flesh,  and  l>atten 

deep 
Upon  thy  dusky  liver.    Do  not  look 
For  any  end,  moreover,  to  this  curse. 
Or  ere  "some  god  appear  to  accept  thy 

pangs 
On   his  own  head  vicarious,  and  de- 
scend 
With  unreluctant  step  the  darks  of 

hell 
And  gloomy  abysses  around  Tartarus. 
Then  ponder  this,  —  this  threat  is  not 

a  growth 
Of  vain  invention;  it  is  spoken   and 

meant: 
King  Zeus's  mouth  is  impotent  to  lie, 
Consummating  the  utterance  by  the 

act. 
So,  look  to  it,  thou  !  take  heed,  and 

nevermore 
Forget  good  counsel  to  indulge  self- 
will. 
Chorus.  Our  Hermes  suits  his  I'ea^ 

sons  to  the  times, 
At  least  I  think  so,  since  he  bids  thee 

drop 
Self-will  for  prudent  counsel.    Yield 

to  him  ! 
When    the    wise    err,   their    wisdom 

makes  their  shame. 
Prometheus.  Unto    me     the      fore- 

knower,  this  mandate  of  power 
He  cries,  to  reveal  it. 
What's  strange  in  my  fate,  if  I  suffer 

from  hate 
At  the  hour  that  I  feel  it? 
Let  the  locks  of    the    lightning,   all 

bristling  and  whitening, 


Flasli,  coiling  me  round. 
While  the  ether  goes  surging  'neath 
thunder  and  scourging 
Of  wild  winds  unbound  ! 
Let  the  blast  of  the  firmament  whirl 
from  its  place 
The  earth  rooted  below, 
Anvl  the  brine  of  the  ocean,  in  rapid 
(^motion, 

Be  driven  in  the  face 
Of   the  stars   up   in   heaven,  as   they 

walk  To  and  fro  ! 
Let  him  hurl  jne  anon  into  Tartarus 
—  on  — 
To  the  blackest  degree, 
With   Necessity's  vortices  strangling 

me  down; 
But  he  cannot  join  deatli   to  a  fate 
meant  for  me ! 
Hermes.  Why,   the   words    that    he 
speaks   and   the   thoughts    that 
he  thinks 
Are  maniacal !  —  add, 
If    the   Fate   who    hath    bound    him 
should  loose  not  the  links. 
He  were  utterly  mad. 
Then   depart  ye  who  groan  with 

him. 
Leaving  to  moan  with  him; 
Go    in    haste !  lest    the    roar  of    the 

thunder  anearing 
Should  blast  you  to  idiocy,  living  and 
hearing. 
Chorus.  Change     thy    speech      for 
another,  thy  thought  for  a  new, 
If  to  move  me  and  teach  me  indeed 
be  thy  care ; 
For  thy  words  swerve  so  far  from  the 
loyal  and  true 
That  "the    thunder  of  Zeus  seems 
more  easy  to  bear. 
How  1  couldst    teach  me  to  venture 
such  vileness  ?  behold  ! 
I  choose  with   this  victim   this   an- 
guish foretold  1 
I  recoil  from  the  traitor  in  haste  and 

disdain, 
And   I   know  that  the  curse   of  the 
treason  is  worse 
Than  the  pang  of  the  chain. 
Hermes.  Then  remember,  O  nymphs, 

what  I  tell  you  before. 
Nor,  when   pierced  by  the  arrows 
that  Ate  will  throw  you. 
Cast  blame  on  your  fate,  and  declare 
evermore 
That  Zeus  thrust  you  on  anguish  he 
did  not  foreshow  you. 
Nay,  verily,  nay  1  for  ye  perish  anon 


A    LAMENT   FOR   AD  ON  IS 


245 


For  your  deed,  by  your  choice.     By 
no  blindness  of  douitt, 
No  abruptness  of  doom,  but  by  mad- 
ness alone, 
In  the  great  net  of  Ate,   whence 
none  cometh  out. 
Ye  are  wound  and  undone. 
Prometheus.  Ay  !    in    act    now,    in 
word  now  no  more. 
Earth  is  rocking  in  space. 
And    the   thunders   crash   up  with   a 
roar  upon  roar. 
And   the   eddying   lightnings   flash 
fire  in  my  face. 
And  the  whirlwinds  are  whirling  the 
dust  round  and  round, 


And  the  blasts  of  the  winds  univer- 
sal leap  free, 
And  blow  each  upon  each  with  a  pas- 
sion of  sound. 
And  ether  goes  mingling  in  storm 
with  the  sea. 
Such  a  curse  on  my  head,  in  a  mani- 
fest dread. 
From  the  hand  of  your  Zeus   has 
been  hurtled  along. 
Oh  my  mother's  fair  glory  !    O  Ether, 

enringing 
All    eyes    with    the    sweet    common 
light  of  thy  bringing  ! 
Dost    see      how    I    suffer      this 
wrong  ? 


A  LAMENT  FOR  ADONIS. 


FROM    THK    GREEK   OF   BION. 


I  mourn  for  Adonis  —  Adonis  is  dead, 
Fair  Adonis  is  dead,  and  the  Loves 
are  lamenting. 
Sleep,  Cypris,  no  more  on  thy  purple- 
strewed  bed : 
Arise,  wretch  stoled  in  black.  Iteat 
thy  breast  unrelenting, 
And    shriek    to     the   worlds,    "Fair 
Adonis  is  dead." 


I  mourn  for  Adonis  —  the  Loves  are 
lamenting. 
He  lies  on  the  hills  in    his   beauty 
and  death : 
The  white  tusk  of  a  boar  has  trans- 
pierced his  white  tliigh. 
Cytherea   grow.s  mad   at   his  thin, 
gasping  breatli, 
M'hile  the  black  blood  drips  d.own  on 
the  pale  ivory. 
And  his  eyeballs  lie  (iiu'.nched  with 
the  weight  of  his  brows: 
The  rose  fades  from  his  lips,  and  upon 
them  just  parted 
The  kiss  dies  the  goddess  consents 
not  to  lose, 


Though  the  kiss  of  the  dead  cannot 
make  her  glad-hearted: 
He  knows  not  who  kisses  him  deail 
in  the  dews. 


HI. 

I  mourn  for  Adonis  —  the  Loves  are 
lamenting. 
Deep,  deep,  in  the  thigh  is  Adonis's 
wound; 
But  a  deeper,  is  Cypris's  bosom  pre- 
senting. 
The  youth  lieth  dead  while  his  dogs 
howl  around, 
And   the  nymphs  weep  aloud  from 
the  mists  of  the  hill. 
And     the     poor    Aphrodite',    with 
tresses  unbound. 
All  dishevelled,  unsandalled,  shrieks 
mf)urnful  and  shrill 
Through    the   dusk   of   the  groves. 
The  thorns,  tearing  her  feet. 
Gather  up  the  red  tiower  of  her  blood 
which  is  holy, 
Each   footstep  she  takes;  and  the 
valleys  repeat 
The  sharp  cry  she  utters,  and  draw  it 
out  slowlv. 


i 


24G 


.1    LAMENT  FOR   ADONIS. 


She  calls  on  lier  spouse,  lier  Assy- 
rian, on  him 
Her  own  youth,  while  the  dark  blood 
sjireads  over  his  body. 
The  chest  taking  luie  from  the  gash 
in  the  limb. 
And  the  bosom  once  ivory  turning  to 
ruddy. 

IV. 

Ah,  ah,  Cytherea !  the  Loves  are  Ja- 
menting. 
She  lost  her  fair  spouse,  and  so  lost 
her  fair  smile: 
"When   he  lived  she  was  fair,  by  the 
whole  world's  consenting, 
Whose   fairness  is  dead  with   liim: 
woe  W(jrth  the  while  ! 
All  the  mountains  above,  and  the  oak- 
lands  below. 
Murmur,  ah,  ah,  Adonis!  the  streams 
overflow 
Aphrodite's  deep  wail;  river-fountains 
in  pity 
Weep  soft  in  the  hills;  and  the  flow- 
ers as  they  blow 
Redden  outward  with  sorrow,  while 
all  hear  her  go 
With  the  song  of  her  sadness  through 
mountain  and  city. 


Ah, 


V. 

Cytherea ! 


Adonis      is 


ah, 
dead. 

Fair    Adonis    is    dead  — Echo    an- 
swers Adonis ! 
Who  weeps  not  for  Cypris,  when  bow- 
ing her  head 
She  stares  at  the  wound  where  it 
gapes  and  astonies  ? 

—  When,  ah,  ah!— she  saw  how  the 

blood  ran  away 
And  empurpled  the  thigh,  and,  with 
wild  hands  Hung  out, 
Said  with  sobs,  "  Stay,  Adonis  !  un- 
happy one,  stay, 
Let  me  feel  thee  once  more,  let  me 
ring  thee  about 
With  the  clasp  of  my  arms,  and  press 
kiss  into  kiss  ! 
Wait  a  little,  Adonis,  and  kiss  me 
again. 
For  the  last  time,  beloved;  and  but  so 
nnich  of  this 
That  the  kiss  may  learn  life  from  the 
warmth  of  the  strain  ! 

—  Till  thy  breath  shall  exude  from  thy 

soul  to  my  mouth, 


To  my  heart,  and,  the  love-charm  I 
once  more  receiving, 
May  drink  thy  love  in  it,  and  keep  of 
a  truth 
That  one  kiss  in  the  jjlace  of  Adonis 
the  living. 
Thou  fiiest   me,   mournful  one,  fliest 
me  far. 
My  Adonis,  and  seekest  the  Acheron 
portal, 
To  Hell's  cruel  King  goest  down  with 
a  scar. 
While   I  weep  and   live   on  like  a 
wretched  immortal. 
And  follow  no  step  !    O  Persephone', 
take  him. 
]My   husband !    thou'rt    better    and 
brighter  than  I, 
So  all  beauty  flows  down  to  thee:  / 
cannot  make  him 
Look  up  at  my  grief:  there's  despair 
in  my  cry, 
Since  I  wail  for  Adonis  who  died  to 
me  —  died  to  me  — 
Then,  I  fear  thee!    Art  thou  dead, 
my  Adored  ? 
Passionends  like  a  dream  in  the  sleep 
that's  denied  to  me, 
Cypris  is  widowed,  the  Loves  seek 
their  lord 
All  the  house  through  in  vain.    Charm 
of  cestus  has  ceased 
With  thy  clasp  !   O  too  bold  in  the 
hunt  past  preventing. 
Ay,  mad,  thou  so  fair,  to  have  strife 
with  a  beast !  " 
Thus   the   goodess  wailed  on;   and 
the  Loves  are  lamenting. 


VI. 


Ah, 


is 


ah,     Cytherea!        Adonis 

dead. 
She  wept  tear  after  tear  with  the  blood 

which  was  shed. 
And  both  turned  into  flowers  for  the 

earth's  garden-close,  — 
Her   tear,    to    the   wind-flower;    his 

blood  to  the  rose. 

VII. 

I    mourn     for    Adonis  —  Adonis     is 
dead. 
Weep  no  more  in  the  woods,  Cythe- 
rea, thy  lover ! 
So,  well:  make  a  place  for  liis  corse  in 
thy  bed. 
With  the  purples  thou  sleepest  in, 
under  and  over. 


[-♦-•-♦H 


A    VISION   OF  POETS. 


247 


He's  fair,  though  a  corse, —  a  fair  corse, 
like  a  sleeper. 
Lay  him  soft  in  the   silks  he   had 
pleasure  to  fold 
When,    beside    thee    at    night,    holy 
dreams  deep  and  deeper 
Enclosed  his  young  life  on  the  couch 
made  of  gold. 
Love  him  still,  poor  Adonis;  cast  on 
him  together 
The  crowns  and  the  flowers:  since 
he  died  from  the  place. 
Why,   let  all  die  with  him;    let  the 
blossoms  go  wither; 
Rain  myrtles  and  olive-buds  down 
on  his  face. 
Rain  the  myrrh  down,  let  all  that  is 
best  fall  a-pining 
Since  the  myrrh  of  his  life  from  thy 
keeping  is  swept. 
Pale  he  lay,  thine  Adonis,  in  purples 
reclining: 
The  Loves  raised  their  voices  around 
him  and  wejii. 
They  have  shorn  their  bright  curls  off 

to  cast  on  Adonis: 
One  treads  on  his  bow;  on  his  arrows, 

another; 
One  breaks  up  a  well-feathered  quiv- 
er; and  one  is 
Bent  low  at  a  sandal,  untying  the 

strings; 
And  one  carries  the  vases  of  gold 
from  the  springs, 


AVhile  one  washes  the  wound,  and  bo- 
hind  them  a  brother 
Fans  down  on  the  body  sweet  air 
with,  his  wings. 

VIII. 

Cytherea  herself  now  the   Loves  are 
lamenting. 
Each  torch  at  the  door  Hymenreus 
blew  out; 
And,  the  marriage-wreath   dropping 
its  leaves  as  repenting. 
No    more    "Hymen,    Hymen,"    is 
chanted  about; 
But  the  «/  ai  instead  —  "ai  alas"i.s 
begun 
For  Adonis,  and  then  follows  "  ai 
HymenjEus  ! " 
The  Graces  are  weeping  for  Cinyris' 
son, 
Sobbing  low,  each  to  each  "  His  fair 
eyes  cannot  see  us  !  " 
Their  wail  strikes  more  shrill  than  the 

sadder  Dione's. 
The  Fates  mourn  aloud  for  Adonis, 

Adonis, 
Deep  chanting:  he  hears  not  a  word 
that  they  say : 
He  would  hear,  but  Persephone  has 
him  in  keeping. 
— Cease  moan,  Cytherea  !  leave  pomps 
for  to-daj' , 
And  weep  new  when  a  new  year  re- 
fits thee  for  weeping. 


A  VISION  OF  POETS. 


O  sacred  Essence,  lighting  me  this  liour. 
How    may    I    lightly    stile    thy    great 
power? 
Echo.  Power. 

Power!  but  of  whence?  under  the  green- 
wood spraye? 
Or  liv'st  in  Heaven?  saye. 
Echo.  In  Heavens  aye. 


In  Heavens  aye !  tell,  may  I  it  obtayne 
By  alm.s,  by  fasting,  prayer,  —  by  painc  ? 
Echo.  By  paine. 

Show  mo  the  paine,  it  shall  be  under 

gone : 
I  to  mine  end  will  still  go  on. 
Echo.  Go  on. 

Britannia's  pastorals. 


A  POET  could  not  sleep  aright, 

For    his    soul    kept    up     too    much 

light 
Under  his  eyelids  for  the  night. 


And  thus  he  rose  disquieted, 

With  sweet  rhymes  ringing  through 

his  head. 
And  in  the  forest  wandered. 


i 


248 


A    VISION   OF  FOETS. 


Where,  sloping  up  the  darkest  glades, 
The  moon  had  drawn  long  colonnades 
Upon  whose  floor  the  verdure  fades 

To  a  faint  silver,  pavement  fair 

The     antique    wood-nymphs    scarce 

would  dare 
To  footprint  o'er,  had  such  heen  there. 

And  rather  sit  by  breathlessly, 
With  fear  in  their  large  eyes,  to  see 
The  consecrated  sight.     But  hk 

The  poet,  who,  with  spirit-kiss 
Familiar,  had  long  claimed  fqr  his 
Whatever  earthly  beauty  is, 

Who  also  in  his  spirit  bore 

A  beauty  passing  the  earth's  stoi^, 

Walked  calmly  onward  evermore. 

His  aimless  thoughts  in  metre  went 
Like  a  babe's  hand,  without  intent, 
Drawn  down  a  seven-stringed  instru- 
ment ; 

Nor  jarred  it  with  his  humor  as. 
With  a  faint  stirring  of  the  grass, 
An  apparition  fair  did  pass. 

He  might  have  feared  another  time; 
But  all   things  fair  and  strange  did 

chime 
With  his  thoughts  then,  as  rhyme  to 

rhyme. 

An  angel  had  not  startled  him. 
Alighted  from  heaven's  burning  rim 
To  breathe  from  glory  iu  the  Dim; 

Much  less  a  lady  riding  slow 

Upon  a  paU'i'ey  white  as  snow. 

And  smooth  as  a  snow-cloud  could  go. 

Full  upon  his  she  turned  her  face: 
"  What  ho,  sir  i>oet !  dost  thou  pace 
Our  woods  at  night  in  ghostly  chase 

"  Of  some  fair  dryad  of  old  tales. 
Who  chants  between  the  nightingales 
And  over  sleep  by  song  prevails  ?  " 

She  smiled;  but  he  could  see  arise 
Her  soul  fr|)m  far  adown  her  eyes, 
Prepared  as  if  for  sacrifice. 

She  looked  a  queen  who  seeuieth  gay 
From  royal  grace  alone.  "  Now,  nay," 
He  answered,  "  slumber  passed  away 


"  Compelled  by  instincts  in  my  head 
That  I  should  see  to-night,  instead 
Of  a  fair  nymph,  some  fairer  Dread." 

She  looked  up  quickly  to  the  sky 
And  spake:  "The  moon's  regality 
Will  hear  no  praise;  she  is  as  I. 

"  She  is  in  heaven,  and  I  on  eartli; 
This  is  my  kingdom:  I  come  forth 
To  crown  all  poets  to  their  worth." 

He     brake     iu    with    a     voice    tlial 

mourned : 
"To    their   worth,   lady?    They  are 

scorned 
By  men  they  sing  for,  till  inurned. 

"To  their  worth?  Beauty  in  the 
mind 

Leaves  the  hearth  cold,  and  love-re- 
fined 

Ambitions  make  the  world  unkind. 

"The   boor   who   ploughs    the    daisy 

down, 
The  chief  whose  mortgage  of  renown 
Fixed    upon    graves    has    bought    a 

crown  — 

"  Both  these  are   happier,  more  ap- 
proved. 
Than  poets!  —  why  should  I  be  moved 
In  saying  both  are  more  beloved  ?  " 

"The    south    can    judge   Udt  of    the 

north," 
She  resumed  calmly:  "  I  come  forth 
To  crown  all  poets  to  their  worth. 

"  Yea,  verily,  to  anoint  them  all 
With  blessed  oils,  which  surely  shall 
Smell  sweeter  as  the  ages  fall." 

"As  sweet,"  the  poet  said,  and  rung 
A  low  sad   laugh,   "as  flowers  are, 

sprung 
Out  of  their  graves  when  they  die 

young  ; 

"  As  sweet  as  window-eglantine. 
Some   bough   of    which,  as   they   tle- 

cline. 
The  hired  uurse  gathers  at  their  sign; 

"  As   sweet,    iu    short,   as    perfumed 

shroud 
Which  the  gay  Roman  maidens  sewed 
For  English  Keats,  singing  aloud." 


A    VIS/ON   OF  POETS. 


249 


The  lady  answered,  "  Yea,  as  sweet ! 
The  things  thou  naraest  being  com- 
plete 
In  fragrance,  as  I  measure  it. 

"  Since  sweet  the  death-clothes  and 

the  knell 
Of  him  who,  having  lived,  dies  well; 
And  wholly  sweet  the  asphodel 

"  Stirred  softly  by  that  foot  of  his. 
When  he  treads  brave  on  all  that  is. 
Into  the  world  of  souls,  from  this. 

"Since  sweet  the  tears  dropped   at 

the  door 
Of  tearless  death,  and  even  before  — 
Sweet,  consecrated  evermore. 

"What,  dost  thou  judge  it  a  strange 

thing 
That  poets,  crowned  for  vanquishing. 
Should  l)ear  some  dust  from  out  the 

ring? 

"  Come  on  with  me,  come  on  with  me, 
And  learn  in  coming:  let  me  free 
Thy  spirit  into  verity." 

She  ceased:  her  palfrey's  jiaces  sent 
No  separate  noises  as  she  went: 
'Twas  a  bee's  hum,  a  little  spent. 

And,  while  the  poet  seemed  to  tread 
Along  the  drowsy  noise  so  made, 
The  forest  heaved  up  overhead 

Its  billowy  foliage  through  the  air. 
And  the  calm  stars  did  far  and  spare 
O'erswim  the  masses  everywhere. 

Save  when  the  overtopping  pines 
Did   bar  their  tremulous   light  with 

lines 
All  fixed  and  black.     Now  the  moon 

shines 

A  broader  glory.  You  may  see 
The  trees  grow  rarer  jn-esently ; 
The  air  blows  u]i  more  fresh  and  free: 

Until  they  coine  from  dark  to  light. 
And  from  the  forest  to  the  sight 
Of  the  large  heaven-heart,  bare  with 
night, 

A  fiery  throb  in  every  star. 
Those  burning  arteries  that  are 
The  conduits  of  God's  life  afar. 


A  wild  brown  moorland  underneath, 
And  four  pools  breaking  up  the  heath 
With  white  h>w  gleamings    blank  as 
death. 

Beside  the  first  pool,  near  the  wood, 
A  dead  tree  in  set  horror  stood, 
Peeled  and  disjointed,  stark  as  rood: 

Since  thunder-stricken  years  ago. 
Fixed  in  the  spe(;tral  strain  and  throe 
Wherewith     it    struggled     from    the 
blow: 

A  monumental  tree,  alone, 

That   will    not    bend    in   storms,    nor 

groan. 
But  break  off  sudden  like  a  stone. 

Its  lifeless  shadow  lies  oblique 
Upon  the  pool  where,  javelin-like, 
The  .star-rays  quiver  while  they  strike. 

"  Drink,"  said  the  ladv,  verv  still: 
"  Be    holv    and    cold.''     He"   did    her 

will. 
And  drank  the  starry  water  chili. 

The  next  pool  they  came  near  unto 
Was  bare  of  trees;  there,  only  grew 
Straight  fiags,  and  lilies  just  a  few, 

Which  sullen  on  the  water  sate. 
And  leant  their  faces  on  the  fiat, 
As  weary  of  the  starlight-state. 

"  Drink,"   said   the   lady,   grave  and 

slow : 
"  M'drhVs     ii.se      behooveth     thee     to 

know." 
He  drank  the  bitter  wave  below. 

The    third    pool,    girt    with    thorny 

bushes, 
And  flaunting  weeds  and  reeds  and 

rushes 
That  winds  sang  through  in  mournful 

gushes. 

Was    whitely    smeared     in    many    a 

round 
By  a  slow  slime:  the  starlight  swound 
Over  the  ghastly  light  it  found. 

•'  Drink,"    said    the    lady,    sad    and 

slow: 
"  World'n    love     behooveth     thee     to 

know." 
He  looked  to  her  commauding  so; 


250 


A    VISION    OF  POETS. 


Her  Ijrow  was  troubled;  but  her  eye 
Struck    clear    to    his    soul.     For    all 

reply 
He  drauk  the  water  suddenly, 

Then,  with  a  deathly  sickness,  passed 
Beside  the  fourth  pool  and  the  last, 
Where  weights  of  shadow  were  down- 
cast 

From  yew  and  alder,  and  rank  trails 
Of    nightshade    clasping    the    trunk- 
scales, 
And  flung  across  the  intervals 

From  yew  to  yew:  who  dares  to  stoop 
"Where    those    dank    branches    over- 
droop, 
Into  his  heart  the  cliill  strikes  up. 

He  hears  a  silent  gliding  coil, 

The  snakes  strain  hard  against  the 

soil. 
His  foot  slips  in  their  slimj*  oil, 

And  toads  seem  crawling  on  liis  hand, 
And  clinging  bats,  but  dimly  scanned, 
Full  in  his  face  their  wings  expand. 

A  paleness  took  the  poet's  cheek: 

"  Must  I  drink  here?"  he  seemed  to 

seek 
The  lady's  will  with  utterance  meek: 

"  Ay,  ay,"  she  said,  "  it  so  must  be:  " 
(And  this  time  she  spake  cheerfully) 
"Behooves  thee  know  icorkVs  cruel- 
ty." 

He  bowed  his  forehead  till  liis  mouth 
Curved  in  the  wave,  and  drank  un- 

loath 
As  if  from  rivers  of  the  south; 

His    lips  sobbed  through  the  water 

rank. 
His   heart    paused   in   him   while   he 

drank. 
His   brain   beat   heart-like,  rose   and 

sank. 

And  he  swooned  backward  to  a  dream 
Wherein   he    lay    'twixt    gloom    and 

gleam, 
With  death  and  life  at  each  extreme: 

And  spiritual  thunders,  born  of  soul. 
Not  cloud,  did  leap  from  mystic  pole. 
And  o'er  him  roll  and  counter-roll. 


Crushing  their  echoes  reboant 

With  their  own  wheels.    Did  Heaven 

so  grant 
His  spirit  a  sign  of  covenant  ? 

At  last  came  silence.  A  slow  kiss 
Did  crown  his  forehead  after  this; 
His  eyelids  flew  back  for  the  bliss. 

The  lady  stood  beside  his  head. 
Smiling  a  thought  with  hair  dispread: 
The  moonshine  seemed  dishevelled 

In  her  sleek  tresses  manifold. 
Like  Danae's  in  the  rain  of  old 
That  dripped  with  melancholy  gold: 

But  SHE  was  holy,  pale  and  high 
As  one  who  saw  an  ecstasy 
Beyond  a  foretold  agony. 

"  Rise  up  !  "  said  she  with  voice  where 

song 
Eddied  through  speech,  —  "  rise  up,  be 

strong; 
And  learn  how  right  avenges  wrong." 

The  poet  rose  up  on  his  feet: 
He  stood  before  an  altar  set 
For  sacrament  with  vessels  meet. 

And  mystic  altar-lights,  which  shine 
As    if    their    flames    were     crystal- 
line 
Carved  flames  that  would  not  shrink 
or  pine. 

The  altar  filled  the  central  place 

Of  a  great   church,   and    toward    its 

face 
Long  aisles  did  shout  and  interlace, 

And  from  it  a  continuous  mist 
Of  incense  (round  the  edges  kissed 
By  a  yellow  light  of  amethyst) 

Wound    upward    slowly   and    throb- 

bingly. 
Cloud  within  cloiul,  right  silverly. 
Cloud  above  cloud,  victoriously, — 

Broke  full  against  the  arched  roof. 
And  thence  refracting  eddied  off, 
And  floated  through  the  marble  woof 

Of  many  a  fine-wrought  architrave. 
Then,  poising  its  white  masses  brave. 
Swept    solemnly    down     aisle     an(l 
nave, 


"  Alone  amid  the  shifting  scene 
That  central  altar  stood  serene."  —  Page  251. 


''.'£., 


A   \'isjON  OF  roars. 


251 


Where  now  in  dai-k,  and  now  in  light, 
The   countless  columns,   glimmering 

white, 
Seemed  leading  out  to  the  Infinite: 

Plunged  halfway   up  the  shaft  they 

showed, 
In  that  pale  shifting  incense-cloud 
Which    flowed    them    l>y,   and   over- 
flowed, 

Till  mist  and  marble  seemed  to  bleud 
And  the  whole  temple  at  the  end, 
With  its  own  incense  to  distend,  — 

The  arches  like  a  giant's  bow 

To  bend  and  slacken;  and,  below. 

The  niched  saints  to  come  and  go: 

Alone  amid  the  shifting  scene 
That  central  altar  stood  serene 
In  its  clear,  steadfast  taper-sheen. 

Then  first  the  poet  was  aware 
Of  a  chief  angel  standing  there 
Before  that  altar,  in  the  glare. 

His  ej'es  were  dreadful,  for  you  saw 
That  they  saw  God;  his  lips  and  jaw, 
Grand-made  and  strong,  as  Sinai's  law 

They  could  enunciate,  and  refrain 

From  vibratory  after-pain; 

And  his  brow's  height  was  sovereign: 

On  the  vast  background  of  his  wings 

Rises  his  image,  and  he  flings 

From  each  plumed  arc  pale  glitteriugs 

And  fiery  flakes  (as  beateth  more 
Or  less  the  angel-heart)  before 
And  round  him  upon  roof  'and  floor. 

Edging  with  fire  the  shifting  fumes; 
While  at  his  side,  'twixt   lights  and 

glooms. 
The  phantasm  of  an  organ  booms. 

Extending  from  which  instrument 
And  angel,  right  and  left  way  bent, 
The  poet's  sight  grew  sentient 

Of  a  strange  company  around 

And  toward  the  altar;  pale  and  bound, 

With  bay  above  the  eyes  profound. 

Deathful  their  faces  were,  and  yet 
The  power  of  life  was  in  them  set. 
Never  forgot,  nor  to  forget: 


Sublime  significance  of  mouth. 

Dilated  nostril  full  of  youth, 

And  forehead  royal  with  the  truth. 

These  faces  were  not  multiplied 
Beyond  your  count,  but,  side  by  side, 
Did  front  the  altar,  glorified. 

Still  as  a  vision,  yet  exprest 

Full  as  an  action,  —  look  and  geste 

Of  buried  saint  in  risen  rest. 

The  poet  knew  them.     Faint  and  dim 
His  spirits  seemed  to  sink  in  him; 
Then,   like    a    dolphin,   change,   and 
swim 

The  current:  these  were  poets  true. 
Who  died  for  Beauty,  as  martyrs  do 
For  Truth;  the  ends   being  scarcely 
two. 

God's  prophets  of  the  Beautiful 
These  jioets  were;  of  iron  rule, 
The  rugged  cilix,  serge  of  wool. 

Here  Homer,  with  the  broad  suspense 
Of  thunderous  brows,  and  lips  intense 
Of  garrulous  god-innocence. 

There  Shakspeare,  on  whose  forehead 
climb 

The  crowns  o'  the  world:  O  eyes  sub- 
lime 

With  tears  and  laughters  for  all  time! 

Here  ^schylus,  the  women  swooned 
To  see  so  awful  when  he  frowned 
As  the  gods  did:  he  standeth  crowned. 

Euripides,  with  close  and  mild 
Scholastic  lips,  that  could  be  wild, 
And  laugh  or  sob  out  like  a  child, 

Even  in  the  classes.     Sophocles, 
With  that  king's  look  which  down  the 

trees 
Followed  the  dark  eflSgies 

Of  the  lost  Theban.    Hesiod  old. 
Who,  somewhat  blind  and  deaf  and 

cold. 
Cared  most  for  gods  and  bulls.    And 

bold 

Electric  Pindar,  quick  as  fear, 

With  race-dust  on   his  cheeks,   and 

clear. 
Slant,  startled  eyes  that  seem  to  hear 


252 


A    VISION   OF  POKTS. 


The  chariot  rounding  the  last  goal, 
To  hurtle  past  it  in  his  soul. 
And  Saijpho,  with  that  gloriole 

Of  ebon  hair  on  calmed  brows  — 
O  poet-woman!  none  foregoes 
The  leap,  attaining  the  repose. 

Theocritus,  with  glittering  locks 
Dropt  sideway,  as  betwixt  the  rocks 
He  watched  the  visionary  flocks. 

And  Aristophanes,  who  took 
The  world  with  mirth,  and  laughter- 
struck 
The  hollow  caves  of  Thought,   and 
woke 

The  infinite  echoes  hid  in  each. 
And  Virgil :  shade  of  Mantuan  beech 
Did  help  the  shade  of  bay  to  reach 

And  knit  around  his  forehead  high; 
For  his  gods  wore  less  majesty 
Than  his  brown  bees  hummed  death- 
lessly. 

Lucretius,  nobler  than  his  mood. 
Who  dropped  his  plummet  down  the 

broad, 
Deei)  universe,  and  said  "  No  God," 

Finding  no  bottom :  he  denied 
Divinely  the  divine,  and  died 
Chief  jioet  on  the  Tibei'-side 

By  grace  of  God:  his  face  is  stern 
As  one  compelled,  in  sjiite  of  scorn. 
To  teach  a  truth  he  would  not  learn. 

And  Ossian,  dimly  seen  or  guessed; 
Once  counted  greater  than  the  rest. 
When  mountain-winds  blew  out  his 
vest. 

And  Spenser  drooped  his   dreaming 

head 
(With  languid  sleep-smile,  you  had 

said, 
From  his  own  verse  engendered) 

On  Ariosto's,  till  they  ran 
Their  curls  in  one:  the  Italian 
Shot  nimbler  heat  of  bolder  man 

From    his     fine     lids.       And    Dante, 

stern 
And  sweet,  whose  spirit  was  an  urn 
For  wine  and  milk  poured  out  in  turn. 


Hard-souled  Alfieri:  and  fancy-willed 
Boiardo,  wlio  with  laughter  filled 
The  pauses  of  the  jostled  shield. 

And  Berni,  with  a  hand  stretched  out 
To  sleek  that  storm.    And,  not  witli- 

out 
The  wreath  he  died  in,  and  the  doubt 

He  died  by,  Tasso,  bard  and  lover, 
Whose  visions  were  too  thin  to  cover 
The  face  of  a  false  woman  over. 

And  soft  Racine;  and  grave  Corneille, 
The  orator  of  rhymes,  whose  wail 
Scarce  shook  his  purple.     And  Pe- 
trarch pale. 

From  wliose  brain-lighted  heart  were 

thrown 
A  thousand  thoughts  beneath  the  sun. 
Each  lucid  with  the  name  of  One. 

And  Camoens,  with  that  look  he  had, 
Compelling  India's  Genius  sad 
From  the  wa\e  tlirough  the  Lusiad; 

The  murmui's  of  tlie  storm-cape  ocean 
Indrawn  in  vibrative  emotion 
Alongthe  verse.   And,  while  devotion 

In  his  wild  eyes  fantastic  shone 
Under  the  tonsure  blown  upon 
By  airs  celestial,  Calderon. 

And  bold    De  Vega,   who    breathed 

quick 
Verse  after  verse,  till  death's  old  trick 
Put  pause  to  life  and  rhetoric. 

And  Goethe,  with  tliat  reaching  eye 
His  soul  reached  out  from,  far  and 

high. 
And  fell  from  inner  entity. 

And  Schiller,  with  heroic  front 
Worthy  of  Plutarch's  kiss  iipon't,  — 
Too  large  for  wreath  of  modern  wont. 

And  Chaucer,  with  his  infantine 
Familiar  clasp  of  things  divine: 
That  mark  ujion  his  lip  is  wine. 

Here  Milton's  eyes  strike  piercing- 
dim: 

The  shapes  of  suns  and  stars  did 
swim 

Like  clouds  from  them,  and  granted 
him 


T 


.4    VISION   OF  POETS. 


253 


God  for  sole  vision.    Cowley,  there, 

Wliose  active  fancy  deljonair 

Drew  straws  like  amber  —  foul  to  fair. 

Drayton    and    Browne,   with    smiles 

they  drew 
From  outward  nature,  still  kept  new 
From  their  own  inward  nature  true. 

And    Marlowe,    Webster,     Fletcher, 

Ben, 
Whose  fire-hearts  sowed  our  furrows 

when 
The  world  was  worthy  of  such  men. 

And  Burns,  with  punpjent  passionings 
Set  in  his  ej'es:  deep  lyric  springs 
Are  of  the  fire-mount's  issuings. 

And  Shelley,  in  his  white  ideal, 

All  statue-blind.    And  Keats,  the  real 

Adonis  with  the  hymeneal 

Fresh  vernal  Inids  half  sunk  between 
His    youthful    curls,   kissed    straight 

and  sheen 
In  his  Rome-grave  by  Venus  queen. 

And  poor,  proud  Byron,  sad  as  grave, 
And  salt  as  life;  forlornly  brave, 
And  quivering'with  the  dart  he  drave. 

And  visionary  Coleridge,  who 

Did  sweep  his  thoughts  as  angels  do 

Their  wings  with  cadence  up  the  Blue. 

These  poets  faced  (and  many  more) 

The  lighted  altar  looming  o'er 

The  clouds  of  incense  dim  and  hoar; 

And  all  their  faces,  in  the  lull 
Of  natural  things,  looked  wonderful 
With   life  and  death  and    deathless 
rule. 

All,  still  as  stone,  and  yet  intense, 
As  if  by  spirit's  vehemence 
That  stone  were  carved,  and  not  bj' 
sense. 

But  where  the  heart  of  each  should 

beat. 
There  seemed  a  wound  instead  of  it, 
From  whence  the  blood  dropjied  to 

their  feet 

Drop  after  drop,  —  dropped  heavily 
As  century  follows  century 
Into  the  deep  eternity. 


Then  said  the  lady,  —  and  her  word 
Came  distant,   as   wide   waves  were 

stirred 
Between  lier  and  the  ear  that  heard,  — 

"  WorlcVii  i(se   is  cold;    ivorkVs  Inre  is 

vain; 
World's  cruelty  is  bitter  bane: 
But  pain  is  not  the  fruit  of  jiain. 

"  Harken,  O  poet,  whom  I  led 

From    the    dark    wood  !     dismissing 

dread, 
Now  hear  this  angel  in  my  stead. 

"  His  organ's  clavier  strikes  along 
These  poets'  hearts,  sonorous,  strong, 
Thej'    gave    him    without    count    of 
wrong,  — 

"  A  diapason  whence  to  guide 

Up  to   God's  feet,   from    these   who 

died. 
An  anthem  fully  glorified, 

"Whereat    God's    blessing,    Ibarak 

qu') 

Breathes    back    this    music,   folds  it 

back 
About  the  earth  in  vapory  rack, 

"  And     men     walk     in     it,     crviug, 

'Lo 
The  world  is  wider,  and  we  know 
The    very     heavens     look     brighter 

so;- 

"  '  The  stars  move  statelier  round  the 

edge 
Of    the  silver  spheres,   and  give    in 

pledge 
Their  light  for  nobler  privilege; 

"  '  No  little  flower  but  joys  or  grieves; 
Full  life  is  rustling  in  the  sheaves; 
Full  spirit  sweeps  the  forest-leaves.' 

"  So  works  this  music  on  the  earth; 
God  so  admits  it,  sends  it  forth 
To  add  another  worth  to  worth,  — 

"A  new  creation-bloom,  that  rounds 
The  old  creation,  and  expounds 
His  Beautiful  in  tuneful  sounds, 

"Now    harken!"      Then     the    poet 

gazed 
Upon  the  angel,  glorious-faced. 
Whose  hand,  majestically  raised, 


2:)4 


A    VISION    OF  POETS. 


Floated  across  the  organ-keys, 

Like  a  pale  inoon  o'er  murmuring  seas, 

With  no  touch  but  with  influences: 

Then  rose  and  fell   (with  swell  imd 

swound 
Of  shapeless  noises  wandering  round 
A  concord  which  at  last  they  found) 

Those   mystic    keys:    the    tones  were 

mixt. 
Dim,  faint,  and  tlirilled  and  throbbed 

betwixt 
The  incomplete  and  the  unfixt; 

And     therein     mighty     minds     were 

heard 
In  mighty  musings,  inly  stirred. 
And  struggling  outward  for  a  word. 

Until  these  surges,  having  run 
Tins  way  and  that,  gave  out  as  one 
An  Aphrodite  of  sweet  tune, 

A  harmony,  that,  finding  vent, 
Upward  in  grand  ascension  went. 
Winged  to  a  heavenly  argument,  — 

Up,  upward  like  a  saint  who  strips 
The  shroud  liack  from  his  eyes  and 

lips, 
And  rises  in  apocalypse; 

A  liarmony  sublime  and  plain. 
Which  cleft  (as  flying  swan,  the  rain. 
Throwing  the  drops  off  with  a  strain 

Of  her  white  wing)  those  undertones 
Of    perplext  chords,   and    soared    at 

once. 
And    struck     out    from     the     starry 

thrones 

Their  several  silver  octaves  as 
It  passed  to  God.    The  music  was 
Of  divine  stature,  strong  to  pass; 

And  those  who  heard  it  understood 
Something  of  life  in  spirit  and  blood, 
Something  of  Nature's  fair  and  good. 

And  while  it  souniled,   those    great 

souls 
Did  thrill  as  racers  at  the  goals, 
And  burn  in  all  their  aureoles: 

But  she  the  lady,  as  vapor-bound, 
Stood  calmly  in  the  joy  of  sound, 
Like  Nature,  with  the  showers  around ; 


And  when  it  ceased,  the  blood  which 

fell 
Again,  alone  grew  audible,  ,, 
Tolling  the  silence  as  a  bell. 

The  .so\ran  angel  lifted  high 

His  hand,  and  spake  out  .sovranly : 

"  Tried  poets,  hearken  and  reply ! 

"  Give    me    true    answers.       If    we 

grant 
That  not  to  suffer  is  to  want 
The  conscience  of  the  jubilant; 

"  If  ignorance  of  anguish  is 
But  ignorance,  and  mortals  miss 
Far  prospects  by  a  level  bliss; 

"  If,  as  two  colors  must  be  viewed 
In  a  visible  image,  mortals  should 
Need  good  and  evil  to  see  good; 

"  If  to  speak  nobly  comprehends 
To  feel  profoundly;  if  the  ends 
Of     power     and     suffering.     Nature 
blends; 

"  If  poets  on  the  tripod  must 

Writhe  like  the  Pj'thian  to  make  just 

Their  oracles,  and  merit  trust; 

"  If  every  vatic  word  that  sweeps 
To  change  the  world  must  pale  their 

lips, 
And  leave  their  own  souls  in  eclipse; 

"  If  to  search  deep  the  universe 
Must    pierce    the    searcher  with  the 

curse. 
Because  that  bolt  (in  man's  reverse) 

"  Was  shot  to  the  heart  o'  the  wood, 

and  lies 
Wedged  deepest  in  the  best;  if  eyes 
That  look  for  visions  and  surprise 

"From    influent    angels    must    shut 

down 
Their  eyelids  flrst  to  sun  and  moon, 
The  head  asleep  upon  a  stone; 

"  If  One  who  did  redeem  you  back, 
By  his  own  loss,  from  final  wrack, 
Did  consecrate  by  touch  and  track 

"Those    temporal    sorrows    till    the 

taste 
Of  brackish  waters  of  the  waste 
Is  salt  with  tears  lie  dropt  too  fast; 


A    VISION   OF  POETS. 


255 


"  If    all  the  crowns    of    eai'th    must 

wound 
With    prickings    of    the    thorns    lie 

found ; 
If     saddest     sighs     swell     sweetest 

sound, — 

"  What  say  ye  unto  this?    Refuse 
This  baptism  in  salt  water  ?    Choose 
Calm   breasts,  mute  lips,  and    labor 
loose  ? 

"  Or,  O  ye  gifted  givers!  ye 

Who  give  your  liberal  hearts  to  me 

To  make  the  world  this  harmony, 

"  Are  ve  resigned  that  they  be  spent 
To  such  world's  help  ?  " 

The  spirits  bent 
Their  awful  brows,  and  said,  "  Con- 
tent." 

Content!  it  soun'ded  like  Amen 
Said  by  a  choir  of  mourning  men; 
An  affirmation  full  of  i)ain 

And  patience;  ay,  of  glorying 

And  adoration,  as  a  king 

Might  seal  an  oath  for  governing. 

Then  said  the  angel,  —  and  his  face 
Lightened  abroad  until  the  place 
Grew  larger  for  a  moment's  space. 

The  long  aisles  flashing  out  in  light, 
And    nave    and    transept,    columns 

white 
And  arches  crossed,   being  clear  to 

sight 

As  if  the  roof  were  off,  and  all 
Stood   in  the    noon-sun,  — "    Lo!    I 

call 
To  other  hearts  as  liberal. 

"  This  pedal  strikes  out  in  the  air: 
My  instrument  has  room  to  bear 
Still  fuller  strains  and  jjerfecter. 

"  Herein  is  room,  and  shall  be  room 
While  time  lasts,  for  new   hearts  to 

come 
Consummating  while  they  consume. 

"  What     living    man    will     bring    a 

gift   . 
Of  his  own  heart,  and  help  to  lift 
The    tune  ?      The    race    is    to    the 

swift." 


So  asked   the    angel.      Straight,   the 

while, 
A  company  came  up  the  aisle 
With  measured  step  and  sorted  smile; 

Cleaving    the     incense  -  clouds    that 

rise, 
With  winking,  unaccustomed  eyes, 
And  lovelocks  smelling  sweet  of  spice. 

One  bore  his  head  above  the  rest 
As  if  the  world  were  dispossest; 
And  one  did  pillow  chin  on  breast, 

Right  languid,  an  as  he  should  faint; 
One  shook  his  curls  across  liis  jiaint, 
And  moralized  on  worldly  taint; 

One,  slanting  up  his  face,  did  wink 
The  salt  rheum  To  the  eyelid's  brink, 
To  think,  O  gods  !  or  —  not  to  think. 

Some  trod  out  stealthily  and  slow, 
As  if  the  sun  would  fall  in  snow 
If  they  walked  to  instead  of  fro; 

And   some,   with  conscious  ambling 

free. 
Did  shake  their  bells  right  daintily 
On  hand  and  foot,  for  harmony; 

And  some,  composing  sudden  sighs 
In  attitudes  of  j^oint-device, 
Rehearsed  impromptu  agonies. 

And  when  this  company  drew  near 
The  spirits  crowned,  it  might  appear 
Submitted  to  a  ghastly  fear; 

As  a  sane  eye  in  master-passion 
Constrains  a  maniac  to  the  fashion 
Of  hideous  maniac  imitation 

In  the  least  geste,  —  the  dropping  low 
O'  the  lid,  the  wrinkling  of  the  brow, 
Exaggerate  with  mock  and  mow: 

So  mastered  was  rliat  coniiiany 
By  the  crowned  vision  utterly. 
Swayed  to  a  maniac  mockery. 

One  dulled  his  eyeballs,  as  they  ached 
With   Homer's  forehead,  though   he 

lacked 
An  inch  of  any;  and  one  racked 

His  lower  lip  with  restless  tootli, 
As  Pindar's  rushing  words  forsooth 
Were  jient  behind  it;  one  his  smooth 


I 


250 


A    VISION   OF  POETS. 


Piuk  cheeks  did  rumple  passionate 
Like  ^sehyhis,  and  tried  to  prate 
On  trolling  tongue  of  fate  and  fate ; 

One  set  her  eyes  like  Sappho's  —  or 
Any  light  woman's;  one  forbore 
Like  Dante,  or  any  man  as  poor 

In  mirth,  to  let  a  smile  undo 

His  hard-shut  lips;  and  one  that  drew 

Sour  humors  from  his  mother  blew 

His  sunken  cheeks  out  to  the  size 
Of  most  unnatural  jollities, 
Because  Anacreon  looked  jest-wise; 

So  with  the  rest:  it  was  a  sight 
A  great  world-laughter  would  requite. 
Or    great    world-wrath,    with    equal 
right. 

Out  came  a  speaker  from  that  crowd 
To  speak  for  all,  in  sleek  and  proud 
Exordial  periods,  while  he  bowed 

His  knee  before  the  angel:  "Thus, 
O  angel  who  hast  called  for  us, 
We  bring  thee  service  emulous, — 

"  Fit  service  from  sufficient  soul, 
Hand-service  to  receive  world's  dole, 
Lip-service  in  world's  ear  to  roll 

"  Adjusted  concords  soft  enow 

To     hear     the     wine-cups     passing 

through, 
And  not  too  grave  to  spoil  the  show: 

"  Thou,    certes,    when    thou    askest 

more, 
O  sapient  angel  !  leanest  o'er 
The  window-sill  of  metaphor. 

"  To  give  our  hearts  up?    Fie  1  that 

rage 
Barbaric  antedates  the  age: 
It  is  not  done  on  any  stage. 

"  Because  your  scald  or  gleeman  went 
With  seven  or  nine  stringed  instrument 
Upon  his  back,  —  must  ours  be  bent  ? 

"  We  are  not  pilgrims,  by  your  leave; 
No,  nor  yet  martyrs:  if  we  grieve, 
It  is  to  rhyme  to  — summer  eve: 

"  And  if  we  labor,  it  shall  be 
As  suitetli  best  with  our  degi'ee. 
In  after-dinner  revery." 


More  yet  that  speaker  would   have 

said. 
Poising  between  his  smiles  fair-fed 
Each  separate  phrase  till  finished; 

But  all  the  foreheads  of  those  born 
And    dead    true    i)oets    flashed  with 

scorn 
Betwixt  the  bay-leaves  round  them 

worn ; 

Ay,  jetted  such  brave  fire,  that  they. 
The    new-come,    shrank    and    paled 

away 
Like  leaden  ashes  when  the  day 

Strikes  on  the  hearth.     A  spirit-blast, 
A  presence  known  by  power,  at  last 
Took    them    up    mutely:    they    had 
passed. 

And  he,  our  pilgrim  poet,  saw 
Only  their  places  in  deep  awe. 
What    time    the    angel  s    smile    did 
draw 

His  gazing  upward.     Smiling  on, 
The  angel  in  the  angel  shone, 
Revealing  glory  in  benison; 

Till,  ripened  in  the  light  which  shut 
The  poet  in,  his  spirit  mute 
Dropiied  sudden  as  a  perfect  fruit: 

He  fell  before  the  angel's  feet. 
Saying,  "  If  what  is  true  is  sweet, 
In  something  I  may  compass  it: 

"  For,  where  my  worthiness  is  poor, 
My  will  stands  richly  at  the  door 
To  pay  shortcomings  evermore. 

"  Accejit  me,  therefore:  not  for  price, 
And  not  for  pride,  my  sacrifice 
Is  tendered;  for  mj'  soul  is  nice, 

"  And  will  beat  down   those    dusty 

seeds 
Of  bearded  corn  if  she  succeeds 
In  soaring  while  the  covey  feeds. 

"  I  soar;  I  am  drawn  up  like  the  lark 
To  its  white  cloud:  so  high  my  mark. 
Albeit  my  wing  is  small  and  dark. 

"  I  ask  no  wages,  seek  no  fame: 
Sew  me  for  shroud,  round  face  and 

name, 
God's  banner  of  the  oriflamme. 


A    VISWi\   OF  POETS. 


257 


"  I  only  would  have  leave  to  loose 
(In  tears  and  blood  if  so  He  choose) 
Mine  inward  music  out  to  use; 

"  I  only  would  be  spent  —  in  pain 
And  loss  perchance,  but  not  in  vain  — 
Upon  the  sweetness  of  that  strain: 

"  Only  project  beyond  the  bound 
Of  mine  own  life,  so  lost  and  found. 
My  voice,  and  live  on  in  its  sound; 

"  Only  embrace  and  be  embraced 
By  fiery  ends,  whereby  to  waste. 
And     light    God's    future    with    my 
past." 

The  angel's  smile  grew  more  divine. 
The  mortal  speaking;  ay,  its  shine 
Swelled  fuller,  like  a  choir-note  tine, 

Till  the  broad  glory  round  his  brow 
Did  vibrate  with  the  light  below; 
But  what  he  said,  I  do  not  know. 

Nor  know  I  if  the  man  who  prayed 
Rose  up  accepted,  unforbade, 
From  the  church-tioor  where  he  was 
laid ; 

Nor  if  a  listening  life  did  run 
Through  the  king-poets,  one  by  one 
Rejoicing  in  a  worthy  son: 

My  soul,  which  might  have  seen,  grew 

blind 
By  what  it  looked  on:  I  can  find 
No  certain  count  of  things  behind. 

I  saw  alone,  dim  white  and  grand 
As  in  a  dream,  the  angel's  hand 
Stretched  forth  in  gesture  of  command 

Straight  tlirough  the  haze.    And  so, 

as  erst, 
A  strain  more  noble  than  tlie  first 
Mused  in  tlie  organ,  and  outburst: 

With  giant  march  from  floor  to  roof 
Ivose  the  full  notes  now  parted  off 
In  pauses  massively  aloof 

Like  measured  thunders,  now  rejoined 
In  concords  of  mysterious  kind 
Which  fused  together  sense  and  mind. 

Now  flashing  sharp  on  sharp  along, 
Exultant  in  a  mounting  throng, 
Now  dying  off  to  a  low  song 


Fed  upon  minors,  wavelike  sonnd.s 
Re-eddying  into  silver  rounds. 
Enlarging  liberty  with  bounds: 

And   every   rhythm   that  seemed   to 

close 
Survived  in  confluent  underflows 
Symphonious  with  the  next  that  rose. 

Thus  the  whole  strain  being  multi- 
plied 
And  greatened,  with  its  glorified 
Wings  shot  abroad  from  side  to  side, 

Waved  backward  (as   a  wind  might 

wave 
A  Brocken  mist,  and  with  as  lirave 
Wild  roaring)  arch  and  architrave. 

Aisle,  transept,  columii,  marble  wall, 
Then  swelling  outward,  prodigal 
Of  aspiration  beyond  thrall, 

Soared,  and  drew  up  with  it  the  whole 
Of  this  said  vision,  as  a  soul 
Is  raised  by  a  thought.    And  as  a 
scroll 

Of  bright  devices  is  unrolled 
Still  upward  with  a  gradual  gold, 
So  rose  the  vision  manifold. 

Angel  and  organ,  and  the  round 
Of  spirits,  solemnized  and  crowned; 
While   the  freed  clouds    of    incense 
wound 

Ascending,  following  in  their  track, 
And  glimmering  faintly  like  the  rack 
O'   the   moon   in   her  own  light  cast 
back. 

And  as  that  solemn  dream  withdrew, 
The  lady's  kiss  did  fall  anew 
Cold  on  the  poet's  brow  as  dew. 

And  that  same  kiss  which  bound  him 

first 
Beyond  the  senses,  now  reversed 
I(S  own  law,  and  most  subtly  pierced 

His  sjiirit  with  the  sense  of  things 
Sensual  and  present.  Vanishiugs 
Of  glory  with  ^olian  wings 

Struck   him   and   passed:   the  lady's 

face 
Did  melt  back  in  the  chrysopras 
Of  the  orient  morning  sky,  that  waa 


(-•-■-♦H 


258 


A    VISION   OF  rOKTS. 


Yet  clear  of  lark;  ami  there  and  so 
She  melted  as  a  star  might  do, 
Still  smiling  as  she  melted  slow,  — 

Smiling  so  slow,  he  seemed  to  see 
Her  smile  the  last  thing,  gloriously 
Bej'ond  her,  far  as  memory. 

Then  he  looked  round:  he  was  alone. 
He  lay  before  the  V)reaking  sun, 
As  Jacob  at  the  Bethel  stone. 

And  thought's  entangled  skein  being 

wound, 
He  knew  the  moorland  of  his  swound. 
And  the  pale  pools  that  smeared  the 

ground ; 

The  far  wood-pines  like  oflfing  ships; 
The  fourth  pool's  yew  anear  him  drips. 
World's  cruelty  attaints  his  lips, 

And  still  he  tastes  it,  bitter  still: 
Through  all  that  glorious  possible 
He  had  the  sight  of  present  ill. 

Yet  rising  calmly  up  and  slowly. 
With  such  a  cheer  as  scorneth  folly, 
A  mild,  delightsome  melancholy, 

He  journeyed  homeward  through  the 

wood. 
And  prayed  along  the  solitude 
Betwixt  the  pines,  "  O  God,  my  God!  " 

The  golden  morning's  open  tiowings 
Did  sway  the  trees    to    murmurous 

bowings, 
In  metric  chant  of  blessed  poems. 

And  passing  homeward  through  the 

wood, 
He  prayed  along  the  solitude, 
"  Thou,  Poet-God,  art  great  and  good  ! 

"  And  though  we  must  have,  and  have 

had 
Right  reason  to  be  earthly  sad. 
Thou,  Poet-God,  art  great  and  glad!  " 

CONCLUSION. 

Life  treads  on  life,  and  heart  on  heart: 
We  press  too  close  in  church  and  mart 
To  keep  a  dream  or  grave  apart. 

And  I  was  'ware  of  walking  down 
That  same  greenforest,,wherehadgoue 
The  poet-i>ilgrim.     One  by  one 


I  traced  his  footsteps.     From  the  east 
A  red  and  tender  radiance  pressed 
Through  the  near  trees,  until  I  guessed 

The  sun  behind  shone  full  and  round; 
While  up  the  leafiness  profound 
A  wind  scarce  old  enough  for  sound 

Stood  ready  to  blow  on  me  when 

I  turned  that  way;  and  now  and  then 

The  birds  sang,  and  brake  off  again 

To  shake  their  pretty  feathers  dry 
Of  the  dew,  sliding  droppingly 
From  the  leaf-edges,  and  apply 

Back  to  their  song:  'twixt  dew  and 

bird 
So  sweet  a  silence  ministered, 
God  seemed  to  use  it  for  a  word; 

Yet  morning  souls  did  leap  and  run 
In  all  things,  as  the  least  had  won 
A  joyous  insight  of  the  sun. 

And  no  one,  looking  round  the  wood, 
Could  help  confessing  as  he  stood, 
This  Poet-God  is  f/lad  and  good. 

But  hark!  a  distant  sound  that  grows, 
A  heaving,  sinking  of  the  boughs, 
A  rustling  murmur,  not  of  those, 

A  breezy  noise  which  is  not  breeze! 
And  white-clad  children  by  degrees 
Steal  out  in  troops  among  the  trees,  — 

Fair  little  children  morning-bright. 
With  faces  grave,  yet  soft  to  sight, 
Expressive  of  restrained  delight. 

Some  plucked  the  palm-boughs  within 

reach. 
And  others  leapt  up  high  to  catch 
The  upper   boughs,  and  shake  from 

each 

A  rain  of  dew,  till,  wetted  so. 

The  child  who  held  the  branch  let  go. 

And  it  swang  backward  with  a  flow 

Of  faster  drippings.    Then  I  knew 
The  children  laughed;  but  the  laugli 

flew 
From  its  own  chirrup  as  might  do 

A  frightened  song-bird;  and  a  child 
Who  seemed  the  chief  said  very  mild, 
"  Hush!  keep  this  morning  undefiled." 


A    V/SION   OF  POETS. 


259 


His  eyes  reljiiked  them   from    calm 

spheres; 
His  soul  upon  his  brow  appears 
In  waiting  for  more  holy  years. 

I  called  the  child  to  me,  and  said, 

'•  What  are  your  palms  for?  "  —  "  To 

be  spread," 
He  answered,  "  on  a  poet  dead. 

"The  poet  died  last  month,  and  now 
The   world,    which   had    been    some- 
what slow 
In  honoring  his  living  brow, 

"Commands  the  jialms:   they  must 

be  strown 
On  his  new  marble  very  soon, 
In  a  procession  of  the  town." 

I  sighed  and  said,  "  Did  lie  foresee 
Any  such  honor  ?  "  —  "  Verily 
I  cannot  tell  you,"  answered  he. 

"  But  this  I  know.  I  fain  would  lay 
My  own  head  down,  another  day, 
As  he  did  —  with  the  fame  away. 

"  A  lily  a  friend's  hand  had  plucked 
Lay  by  his  death-bed,  which  he  looked 
As  deeyi  down  as  a  bee  had  sucked, 

"  Then,  turning  to  the  lattice,  gazed 
O'er  hill  and  river,  and  upraised 
His  eyes  illumined,  and  amazed 

"  With  the  world's  beauty,  up  to  God, 
Re-offering  on  their  iris  broad 
The  images  of  things  bestowed 

"  By  the  chief  Poet.     '  God,'  he  cried, 
'  Be  jn-aised  for  anguish   which   has 

tried. 
For  beauty  which  has  satisfied; 

" '  For    this    world's     jiresence     half 

within 
And  half  without  me,  —  thought  and 

scene,  — 
This  sense  of  Being  and  Having  Been . 

"  '  I  thank  thee  that  my  soul  hath  room 
For  thy   grand    world:    both    guests 

may  come  — 
Beauty,  to  soul;  body,  to  tomb. 

"  '  I  am  content  to  be  so  weak: 

Put  strength  into  the  words  I  speak, 

And  I  am  strong  in  what  I  seek 


"  '  I  am  content  to  he  so  bare 
Before  the  archers,  everywhere 
My  wounds   being  stroked   by  heav- 
enly air. 

"  '  I  laid  my  soul  before  thy  feet. 
That  images  of  fair  and  sweet 
Should  walk  to  other  men  on  it. 

"  '  I  am  content  to  feel  the  step 
Of  each  pure  image:  let  those  keep 
To  mandragore  who  care  to  sleep. 

"  '  I  am  content  to  touch  the  brink 
Of  the  other  goblet,  and  I  think 
My  bitter  drink  a  wholesome  drink. 

"  '  Because  my  portion  was  assigned 
Wholesome  and  bitter,  thou  art  kind. 
And  I  am  blessed  to  my  mind. 

"  'Gifted  for  giving,  I  receive 

The  may  thorn,  and  its  scent  outgive: 

1  grieve  not  that  I  once  did  grieve. 

"  '  In  my  large  joy  of  sight  and  touch 
Beyond  what  others  count  for  such, 
I  am  content  to  suffer  much. 

"  '  I  knoic  — is  all  the  mourner  saitb, 
Knowledge  by  suffering  entereth. 
And  life  is  perfected  by  death.'  " 

The  child  spake  nobly :  strange  to  hear, 
His  infantine  soft  accents  clear. 
Charged  with  high  meanings  did  ap- 
pear; 

And,  fair  to  see,  his  form  and  face 
Winged  out  with  whiteness  and  pure 

grace 
From  the  green  darkness  of  the  place. 


Behind  his  head  a  palm-tree  grew; 
An    orient    beam    which    pierced 

through 
Transversely  on  his  forehead  drew 


it 


The  figure  of  a  palm-branch  brown, 
Traced  on  its  brightness  up  and  down 
In  tine  fair  lines,  —  a  shadow-crown: 

Guido  might  paint  his  angels  so, — 

A  little  angel  taught  to  go 

With  holy  words  to  saints  below,  — 

Such  innocence  of  action,  yet 

Significance  of  object,  met 

In  his  whole  bearing  strong  and  sweet. 


! 


260 


A    VISION   OF  POETS. 


And  all  the  children,  tlie  whole  band, 
Did  round  in  rosy  reverence  stand. 
Each  with  a  palm-bough  in  his  hand. 

"And    so    he    died,"    I    whispered. 

"  Nay, 
Not  so,"  the  childish  voice  did  say: 
"That  poet  turned  hiiu  first  to  pray 

"  In  silence,  and  God  heard  the  rest 
'Twixt  the  sun's  footsteps  down  the 

west. 
Then  he  called   one  who  loved  him 

best, 

"Yea,  he  called  softly   through   the 

room 
(His  voice  was  weak,  yet  tender)  — 

'Come,' 
He    said,    '  come    nearer !     Let    the 

bloom 

"  '  Of  life  grow  over,  iindenied. 

This  bridge  of  death,  which  is  not 

wide : 
I  shall  be  soon  at  the  other  side. 

"  '  Come,   kiss  me  ! '     So  the   one  in 

truth 
"Who  loved  him  best,  in  love,  not  ruth, 
Bowed  down,  and  kissed  him  mouth 

to  mouth: 

"  And  in  that  kiss  of  love  was  won 
Life's  manumission.    All  was  done: 
The  mouth  that  kissed    last   kissed 

alone. 

"  But  in  the  former,  confluent  kiss. 
The  same  was  sealed,  I  think,  by  His, 
To  words  of  truth  and  uprightness." 

The  child's  voice   trembled,  his  lips 

shook 
Like  a  rose  leaning  o'er  a  brook, 
"Which    vibrates,    though    it    is    not 

struck. 


"And  who,"  I  asked,  a  little  moved, 
Yet    curious-eyed,    "  was    this    that 

loved 
And  kissed  him  last,  as  it  behoved  ?  " 

"/,"  softly  said  the  child;  and  then, 
"  /,"  said  he  louder,  once  again: 
"  His  son,  my  rank  is  among  men: 

"  And,  now  that  men  exalt  his  name, 
I  come  to  gather  palms  with  them, 
That  holy  love  may  hallow  fame. 

"  He  did  not  die  alone,  nor  should 
His  memory  live  so,  'mid  these  rude 
"World-praises  —  a  worse  solitude. 

"  Me,  a  voice  calleth  to  that  tomb 
"Where  these  are  strewing  branch  and 

bloom, 
Saying,  '  Come  nearer: '  and  I  come. 

"  Glory  to  God  !  "  resumed  he, 
And  his  eyes  smiled  for  victory 
O'er  their  own   tears  which  I  could 
see 

Fallen  on  the  palm,  down  cheek  and 

chin  — 
"  That  poet  now  has  entered  in 
The  place  of  rest  which  is  not  sin. 

"And  while  he  rests,   his  songs   in 

troops 
"Walk    up    and    down    our    earthly 

slopes, 
Companioned  by  diviner  hopes." 

"  But  thou,"  I  murmured  to  engage 
The  child's  speech  farther,  "  hast  an 

age 
Too  tender  for  this  orphanage.  ' 

"  Glory  to  God  — to  God  !  "  he  saith, 
"  Knowledge  by  suffering  EXTEn- 

ETH, 

And  life  is  pekfected  by  death." 


THE  POET'S  VOW. 

"  Oh,  be  -wiser  tlioii, 

Instnieted  that  true  knowledge  leads  to  love." 

woRDSwoitTir. 


PART  THE   FIRST. 

SHOWING  WHEREFORE  THE  VOW  WAf3  MADE. 
I. 

EvK  is  a  twofold  mystery; 

The  stillness  Earth  doth  keep, 
The  motion  wherewith  human  hearts 

Do  each  to  either  leap 
As  if  all  souls  between  the  poles 

Felt  "  Parting  comes  in  sleep." 

II. 

The  rowers  lift  their  oars  to  view 

Each  other  in  the  sea; 
The    landsmen    watch    the    rocking 
boats 

In  a  pleasant  company; 
While  up  the  hill  go  gladlier  still 

Dear  friends  by  two  and  three. 

III. 

The  peasant's  wife  hath  looked  with- 
out 
Her  cottage-door,  and  smiled: 
For  there  the  peasant  drops  his  spade 

To  clasp  his  youngest  child, 
Which  hath  no  speech;  but  its  hand 
can  reach 
And  stroke  his  forehead  mild. 

IV. 

A  poet  sate  that  eventide 

Within  his  hall  alone. 
As  silent  as  its  ancient  lords 

In  the  coffined  place  of  stone, 
When  the  bat  hath  shrunk  from  the 
praying  monk, 

And  the  praying  monk  is  gone. 


Nor  wore  the  dead  a  stiller  face 
Beneath  the  cerement's  roll: 
His  lips  refusing  out  in  words 


Their  mystic  thoughts  to  dole', 
His  steadfast  eye  burnt  inwardly, 
As  burning  out  his  soul. 

VI. 

You  would  not  think  that  brow  could 
e'er 
Ungentle  moods  express ; 
Yet  seemed  it,  in  this  troubled  world. 

Too  calm  for  gentleness, 
When  the  very  star  that  shines  from 
far 
Shines  trembling  ne'ertheless. 

VII. 

It  lacked,  all  need,  the  softening  light 
Which  other  brows  supply: 

We  should  conjoin  the  scathed  trunks 
Of  our  humanity, 

That  each  leafless  spray intwining  may 
Look  softer  'gainst  the  sky. 

VIII. 

None  gazed  within  the  poet's  face; 

The  poet  gazed  in  none : 
He  threw  a  lonely  sliadow  straight 

Before  the  moon  and  sun. 
Affronting  Nature's  heaven-dwelling 
creatures 

With  wrong  to  Nature  done: 

IX. 

Because  this  poet  daringly 

—  The  nature  at  liis  heart, 
And  that  quick  tune  along  his  veins 

He  could  not  change  by  art  — 
Had  vowed  his  blood  of  brotherhood 

To  a  stagnant  place  apart. 


He  did  not  vow  in  fear,  or  wrath, 

Or  grief's  fantastic  whim, 
But,   weights  and   sliows  of  sensual 
things 

2G1 


2C.2 


THE  POET'S    row. 


Too  closely  crossing  him, 
On   his    soul's    eyelid    the     pressure 
slid, 
And  made  its  vision  dim. 

XI. 

And  darkening  in  the  dark  he  strove, 
'Twixt  earth  and  sea  and  sky, 

To  lose  in  shadow,  wave,  and  cloud. 
His  brother's  haunting  cry: 

The    winds    were    welcome    as    thej' 
swept, 

God's  five-day  work  he  would  accept, 
But  let  the  rest  go  by. 

XII. 

He  cried,  "  O  touching,  patient  Earth, 

That  weepest  in  thy  glee. 
Whom  God  created  verj-  good, 

And  verj'  mournful,  we  ! 
Thy   voice   of    moan   doth   reach    his 
throne. 

As  Abel's  rose  from  thee. 

XIII. 

"  Poor  crystal  sky  with  stars  astray  ! 

Mad  winds  tliat  howling  go 
From  east  to  west!  perplexed  seas 

That  stagger  from  their  blow  ! 
O  motion  wild  !   O  wave  defiled  ! 

Our  curse  hath  made  you  so. 

XIV. 

"  We  !  and  ovr  curse  !  do  I  partake 

The  desiccating  sin  ? 
Have  /  the  apple  at  my  lips  ? 

The  money-lust  within  ? 
Do  /  human  stand  with  the  wounding 
hand. 

To  the  blasting  heart  akin  ? 

XV. 

"  Thou  solemn  pathos  of  all  things, 

For  solemn  joy  designed  ! 
Behold,  submissive  to  your  cause. 

An  holy  wrath  I  find, 
And  for  your  sake  the  bondage  break 

That  knits  me  to  my  kind. 


man  s    sympa- 


XVI. 

"  Hear    me    forswear 
thies. 

His  pleasant  yea  and  no, 
His  riot  on  the  piteous  earth 

Whereon  his  thistles  grow, 
His  changing  love  -«•  with  stars  above. 

His  i)ride  —  with  graves  below. 


xvxi. 

"  Hear  me  forswear  his  roof  by  night. 
His  bread  and  salt  by  day. 

His  talkings  at  the  wood-fire  hearth, 
His  greetings  by  the  wai% 

His  answering   looks,   his    systemed 
books. 
All  man,  for  aye  and  aye. 


XVIII. 

purged,   once 


human 


"  Tliat   so   my 
heart. 

From  all  the  human  rent. 
May  gather  strength  to   pledge  and 
drink 
Your  wine  of  wonderment. 
While  you  pardon  me  all  blessingly 
The  woe  mine  Adam  sent. 

XIX. 

"  And  I  shall  feel  your  unseen  looks 
Innumerous,  constant,  deep, 

And  soft  as  haunted  Adam  once. 
Though  sadder  round  me  creep  — 

As  slumbering  men  have  mj^stic  ken 
Of  watchers  on  their  sleep. 

XX. 

"  And  ever,  when  I  lift  my  brow 

At  evening  to  the  sun. 
No  voice  of  woman  or  of  child 

Recording  '  Day  is  done.' 
Your  silences  shall  a  love  express. 

More  deep  than  such  an  one." 


PART  THE  SECOND. 

SHOWING     TO     WHOM      THE     VOW     WAS      DE- 
CLARED. 


The  poet's  vow  was  inly  sworn, 

The  i:)oet's  vow  was  told. 
He  shared  among  his  crowding  friends 

The  silver  and  the  gold; 
They  clasping  bland  his  gift,  his  hand 

In  a  somewhat  slacker  hold. 

II. 

They    wended    forth,    the    crowding 

friends. 
With  farewells  smooth  and  kind. 
They     wended     forth,    the     solaced 

friends, 


riri:  poet'S  vow. 


263 


! 


And  left  but  twain  beliind: 
One  loved  him  true  as  brothers  do, 
And  one  was  Rosalind. 

III. 

He  said,  "My  friends  have  wended 

forth 

With  farewells  smooth  and  kind; 

Mine  oldest  friend,  my  plifj^lited  bride, 

Ye  need  not  stay  l)ehind: 
Friend,   wed   my   fair    bride    for   my 

sake. 
And  let  my  lands  ancestral  make 
A  dower  for  Rosalind. 

rv. 
"  And  when  beside  your  wassail  board 

Ye  bless  your  social  lot, 
I  charge  you  that  the  giver  be 

In  all  his  gifts  forgot. 
Or  alone  of  all  his  words  recall 

The  last,  —  Lament  me  not." 


She  looked  upon  him  silently 
With  her  large,  doubting  eyes, 

Like  a  child  that  never  knew  but  love. 
Whom  words  of  wrath  surprise, 

Till  the  rose  did  break  from  either 
cheek. 
And  the  sudden  tears  did  rise. 

VI. 

She  looked  upon  him  mournfully, 
While  her  large  eyes  were  grown 

Yet  larger  with  the  steady  tears. 
Till,  all  his  purpose  known, 

She  turned  slow,  as  she  would  go  — 
The  tears  were  shaken  down. 

VII. 

She  turned  slow,  as  she  would  go. 
Then  quickly  turned  again. 

And  gazing  in  his  face  to  seek 
Some  little  touch  of  pain, 

"I   thought,"   she  said,  —  but  shook 
her  head  : 
She  tried  that  speech  in  vain. 

viri. 

"  I  thought  —  but  I  am  half  a  child, 

And  very  sage  art  thou  — 
The  teachings  of  the  lieaven  and  earth 

Should  keep  us  soft  and  low. 
They  have  drawn  iny  tears  in  early 
years. 

Or  ere  I  wept  — as  now. 


IX. 

"  But  now  that  in  thy  face  I  read 

Their  cruel  homily, 
Before  their  beauty  I  would  fain 

Untouched,  unsoftened  be,  — 
If  I  indeed  could  look  on  even 
The    senseless,    loveless    earth    and 
heaven 

As  thou  canst  look  on  me  ! 

X. 

"  And  couldest  thou  as  coldly  view 

Thy  childhood's  far  abode, 
Where    little    feet    kept    time  with 
thine 
Along  the  dewy  sod. 
And   thy  mother's    look    from    holy 
book 
Rose  like  a  thought  of  God  ? 


XI. 


O 


brother,  —  called    so,    e'er    her 
last 
Betrothing  words  were  said  ! 
O  fellow-watcher  in  her  room. 

With  hushed  voice  and  tread  ! 
Remeraberest    thou    how,    liand    in 
hand, 

0  friend,  O  lover,  we  did  stand, 
And  knew  that  she  was  dead  ? 

XII. 

"  I  will  not  live  Sir  Roland's  bride, 
That  dower  I  will  not  hold; 

1  tread  below  my  feet  that  go. 
These      jiarchments     bouglit     and 

sold: 
The  tears  I  weep  are  mine  to  keep. 
And  worthier  than  thy  gold." 

XIII. 

The  poet  and  Sir  Roland  stood 
Alone,  each  turned  to  each. 

Till  Roland  brake  the  silence  left 
By  that  soft-throbbing  speech  — 

"  Poor  heart !  "  he  cried,  "  it  vainly 
tried 
The  distant  heart  to  reach. 

XIV. 

"  And  tliou,  O  distant,  sinful  heart 

That  climbest  up  so  high 
To   wrap  and   blind   thee    with    the 
snows 

That  cause  to  dream  and  die. 
What  blessing  can  from  lips  of  man 

Approach  thee  with  his  sigh  ? 


264 


THE   POET'S    VOW. 


XV. 

"  Ay,    what    from   earth  —  create   for 
man, 
And  moaning  in  his  moan  ? 
Ay,    what    from    stars  —  revealed    to 
man. 
And  man-named  one  by  one  ? 
Ay,    more !     what    blessing    can    be 

given 
Where  the  spirits  seven  do  show  in 
heaven 
A  MAN  upon  the  throne  ? 

XVI. 

"A  man  on  earth  he  vrandered  once. 

All  meek  and  undefiled, 
And  those  who  loved  him  said  '  He 
wept ; ' 
None  ever  said  '  He  smiled : ' 
Yet  there  might  have  been  a  smile 

unseen, 
When  he  bowed  his  holy  face,  I  ween, 
To  bless  that  happy  child. 

xvir. 

"  And  now  he  jileadeth  up  in  heaven 

For  our  humanities, 
Till  the  ruddy  light  on  seraphs'  wings 

In  pale  emotion  dies. 
They  can  better  bear  their  Godhead's 
glare 

Than  the  pathos  of  his  eyes. 

x^'lII. 

"  I  will  go  pray  our  God  to-day 

To  teach  thee  how  to  scan 
His  work  divine,  for  human  use. 

Since  earth  on  axle  ran; 
To  teach  thee  to  discern  as  plain 
His    grief    divine,    the    blood-drop's 
stain 

He  left  there,  .MAy  for  man. 

XIX. 

"  So,  for  the  blood's  sake  shed  by  Him 
Whom  angels  God  declare. 

Tears  like  it,  moist  and  warm  with 
love. 
Thy  reverent  eyes  shall  wear. 

To  see  i'  the  face  of  Adam's  race 
The  nature  God  doth  share." 

XX. 

"  I  heard,"  the  poet  said,  "  thy  voice 

As  dimly  as  thy  breath: 
The  sound  was  like  the  noise  of  life 

To  one  auear  his  death; 


Or  of  waves  that  fail  to  stir  the  pale 
Sear  leaf  they  roll  beneath. 


XXI. 

between 


the  sound  and 


"And  still 
me 
White  creatures  like  a  mist 
Did  interfloat  confusedly. 

Mysterious  shapes  unwist: 
Across  im'  heart  and  across  my  brow 
I   felt   them    droop   like   wreaths    of 
snow. 
To  still  the  pulse  they  kist. 

XXII. 

"  The  castle  and  its  lands  are  thine  — 

The  poor's  — it  shall  be  done. 
Go,  man,  to  love!  I  go  to  live 

In  Courland  hall,  alone: 
The  bats  along  the  ceilings  cling, 
The  lizards  in  the  floors  do  run. 
And  storms  and  years  have  worn  and 

reft 
The  stain  by  human  builders  left 
In  working  at  the  stone." 


PART  THE   THIRD. 

SHOWING   HOW   THE    VOW    WAS    KEPT. 
1. 

He  dwelt  alone,  and  sun  and  moon 
Were  witness  that  he  made 

Rejection  of  his  humanness 
Until  they  seemed  to  fade  : 

His  face  did  so,  for  he  did  grow 
Of  his  own  soul  afraid. 

II. 

The  self-poised  God  may  dwell  alone 

With  inward  glorying; 
But  God's  chief  angel  waiteth  for 

A  brother's  voice  to  sing; 
And  a  lonely  creature  of  sinful  nature^ 

It  is  an  awful  thing. 

III. 

An  awful  thing  that  feared  itself; 

While  many  years  did  roll, 
A  lonely  man,  a  feeble  man, 

A  part  beneath  the  whole, 
He  bore  by  day,  he  bore  by  night. 
That  pressure  of  God's  infinite 

Upon  his  finite  soul. 


THE   POET'S    VOIV. 


265 


IV. 

The  poet  at  his  lattice  sate 

And  downward  looked  he. 
Three     Christians     wended     by     to 
prayers, 

With  mute  ones  in  their  ee; 
Each  turned  above  a  face  of  love, 

And  called  him  to  the  far  chapelle 
With  voice  more  tuneful  than  its  bell; 

But  still  they  wended  three. 

V. 

There  journeyed  by  a  bridal  pomp, 
A  bridegroom  and  his  dame; 

He  speaketh  low  for  happiness, 
She  blusheth  red  for  shame : 

But  never  a  tone  of  benison 
From  out  the  lattice  came. 

VI. 

A  little  child  with  inward  song^ 

No  louder  noise  to  dare, 
Stood  near  the  wall  to  see  at  play 

The  lizards  green  and  rare; 
Unblessed  the  while  for  his  childish 
smile. 

Which  Cometh  unaware. 


PART  THE   FOURTH. 

SHOWING    HOW    ROSALIND    FARED    BY    THE 
KEEPINS    OP    THE    VOW. 


In  death-sheets  lieth  Rosalind, 

As  white  and  still  as  they; 
And  the  old  nurse  thatwatchedherbed 

Rose  up  with  "  Well-a-day  !  " 
And  oped  the  casement  to  let  in 
The  sun,  and  that  sweet,  doubtful  din 
Whict  droppeth  from  the  grass  and 

bough 
Sans  wind  and  bird,  none   knoweth 
how, 
To  cheer  her  as  she  lay. 

II. 

The  old  nurse  started  when  she  saw 

Her  sudden  look  of  woe; 
But  the  quick,  wan  tremblings  round 
her  mouth 

In  a  meek  smile  did  go, 
And  calm  she  said,  "  When  I  am  dead, 

Dear  nurse  it  shall  be  so. 


III. 

"  Till  then,  shut  out  those  sights  and 
sounds. 
And  pray  God  jiardon  me 
That  I  without  this  jiain  no  more 

His  blessed  works  can  see ; 
And  lean  beside  me,  loving  nurse. 
That    thou    mayst    hear,    ere    I    am 
worse 
What  thy  last  love  should  be." 

IV- 

The  loving  nurse  leant  over  her, 
As  white  she  lay  beneath, — 

The    old    eyes    searching,    dim   with 
life. 
The  young  ones  dim  with  death,  — 

To  read  their  look  if  sound  forsook 
The  trying,  trembling  breath. 

V. 

"  When  all  this  feeble  breath  is  done, 

And  I  on  bier  aui  laid, 
My  tresses  smoothed  for  never  a  feast, 

My  body  in  shroud  arrayed, 
Uplift  each  palm  in  a  saintly  calm, 

As  if  that  still  I  prayed. 

VI. 

"And  heap  beneath  mine  head  the 
fiowers 
You  stoop  so  low  to  pull,  — 
The  little  white  flowers  from  the  wood 

Which  grow  there  in  the  cool, 
Which     he     and     I,     in   childhood's 

games. 
Went  plucking,  knowing   not    their 
names. 
And  filled  thine  apron  full. 

VII. 

"  Weep  not !    /  weep  not.    Death   is 
strong; 

The  eyes  of  Death  are  dry: 
But  lay  this  scroll  upon  my  breast 

When  hushed  its  heavings  lie, 
And  wait  a  while  for  the  corpse's  smile 

Which  shineth  presently. 

VIII. 

"  And  when  it  shineth,  straightway 
call 

Thy  youngest  children  dear. 
And  bid  them  gently  carry  me 

All  barefaced  on  the  bier; 
But  bid  them  pass  my  kirkyard  grass 

That  waveth  long  anear. 


I 


266 


THE   POET'S    VOW. 


the 


IX. 

bank  where  I 


used  to 


"  And  up 
sit, 
And  dream  what  life  would  be; 
Along  the  brook  with  its  sunny  look 

Akin  to  living  glee; 
O'er  the  windy  hill,  through  the  for- 
est still,  — 
Let  them  gently  carry  me. 


"  And  through  the  piney  forest  still, 
And  down  the  open  moorland, 

Round  where  the  sea  beats  mistily 
And  blindly  on  the  foreland; 

And  let  them  chant  that  hymn  I  know. 

Bearing  me  soft,  bearing  me  slow, 
To  the  ancient  hall  of  Courland. 

XI. 

"  And  when  withal  they  near  the  hall, 

In  silence  let  them  lay 
Mj'  bier  l^efore  the  bolted  door. 

And  leave  it  for  a  day: 
For  I  have  vowed,  though  I  am  proud. 
To  go  there  as  a  guest  in  shroud. 

And  not  be  turned  away." 

XII. 

The  old  nurse  looked  within  her  eyes, 

Whose  mutual  look  was  gone; 
The    old    nurse    stooped    upon     her 
mouth, 

Whose  answ^ering  voice  was  done; 
And  nought  she  heard,  till  a  little  bird. 

Upon  "the     casement's     woodbine 
swinging. 
Broke  out  into  a  loud,  sweet  singing 

For  joy  o'  the  summer  sun: 
"  Alack  I   alack  !  "  — she  watched  no 
more; 

With  head  on  knee  she  wailed  sore, 
And  the  little  bird  sang  o'er  and  o'er 

For  joy  o'  the  summer  sun. 


PART  THE   FIFTH. 

SHOWING  HOW  THE  VOW  WAS  BROKEN. 
I. 

The  poet  oped  his  bolted  door 

The  midnight  sky  to  view; 
A  spirit-feel  was  in  the  air 
Which  seemed  to  touch  his  spirit  bare 


Whenever  his  breath  he  drew; 
And  the  stars  a  liquid  softness  had, 
As  alone  their  holiness  forbade 

Their  falling  with  the  dew, 

II. 

They  shine  upon  the  steadfast  hills, 

Upon  the  swinging  tide. 
Upon  the  narrow  track  of  beach, 

And  the  murmuring  pebbles  pied: 
They  shine  on  every  lovely  place. 
They  shine  upon  the  corpse's  face, 

As  it  were  fair  beside. 

III. 

It  lay  before  him,  human-like, 

Yet  so  unlike  a  thing  ! 
More  awful  in  its  shrouded  pomp 

Than  any  crowned  king; 
All  calm  and  cold,  as  it  did  hold 

Some  secret,  glorying. 

IV. 

A  heavier  weight  than  of  its  clay 
Clung  to  his  heart  and  knee: 

As  if  those  folded  palms  could  strike. 
He  staggered  groaningly, 

And  then  o'erhung,  without  a  groan. 

The  meek,  close  mouth  that  smiled 
alone. 
Whose  speech  the  scroll  must  be. 


THE 


WORDS       OF 
SCROLL. 


ROSALIND'S 


"  I  left  thee  last  a  child  at  heart, 

A  woman  scarce  in  years: 
I  come  to  thee  a  solemn  corpse, 

Which  neither  feels  nor  fears. 
I  have  no  breath  to  use  in  sighs: 
They  laid  the  dead-weights  on  mine 
eyes 

To  seal  them  safe  from  tears. 

"  Look  on  me  with  thine  own  calm 
look: 
I  meet  it  calm  as  thou. 
No  look  of  thine  can  change  this  smile. 

Or  break  thy  sinful  vow. 
I  tell  thee  that  my  poor  scorned  heart 
Is  of  thine  earth  —  thine  earth,  a  part: 
It  cannot  vex  thee  now. 

"  But  out,  alas  !  these  words  are  writ 

By  a  living,  loving  one, 
Adown  whose  cheeks  the  proofs  of 
life, 


>  z. 

3    a> 

a-  a- 

<    o 

<    ^ 

n    < 

C 

t3    a 

— 

-?> 

01    -^ 

^" 

?    0 

Trj^^- 

i^ 

•■  -      « 

?"  ' 

'V* 

^^^  's. 

5     r? 

1 L* 

l'    ""' 

fy\ 

'^^T. 

1? 

'.h^' 

i;, 


i 


THE  FOKT'S    VOIV 


267 


The  warm  quick  tears,  do  run: 
Ah,    let    the    unloviiij,'    corpse    con- 
trol 
Thy  scorn  back  from  tlie  loving  soul 

AVhose  place  of  rest  is  won. 

"  I  have  prayed  for  thee,  with  liurst- 
ingf  sobs, 
When  jiassion's  course  was  free; 
I   liave   jirayed  for  thee,  with  silent 
lips, 
In  the  anguish  none  could  see: 
They   whispered    oft,   '  She    sleepeth 
soft '  — 
But  I  only  prayed  for  thee. 

"  Go  to  !  I  pray  for  thee  no  more: 
The  corpse's  tongue  is  still; 

Its  folded  lingers  point  to  heaven, 
But  point  there  stiff  and  chill: 

No  further  wrong,  no  further  woe, 

Hath  license  from  the  sin  l)elow 
Its  tranquil  heart  to  thrill. 


li)v      th 


livinj 


"I    charge    thee, 
prayer, 
And  the  dead's  silentness, 
To  wring  from  out  thy  soul  a  cry 

Which  God  shall  hear  and  bless  ! 
Lest  Heaven's  own  j)alm  drooji  in  my 

hand, 
And  pale  among  the  saints  I  stand, 
A  saint  companiouless.' 


Bow  lower  down  before  tlu^  throne. 

Triumphant  Rosalind! 
He  ])oweth  on  thy  corpse  his  face. 

And  weepeth  as  the  blind : 
'Twas  a  dread  sight  to  see  them  so. 
For  the  senseless  corpse  rocked    to 
and  fro 

With  the  wail  of  his  living  mind. 


^'I. 


But 


dreader   sight,    could     such    be 
seen. 
His  inward  mind  did  lie, 
Wliose  long-sul)jected  humanness 

Gave  out  its  lion  cry, 
And  fiercely  rent  its  tenement 
lu  a  mortal  agony. 


VII. 

I  tell  you,  friends,  had  you  lieard  his 
wail, 
"Twould   haunt   you    in    coiirt    and 
mart, 
And  in  merry  feast,  mitil  you  set 

Your  cup  down  to  depart,  — 
That  weeping  wild  of  a  reckless  child 
From  a  proud  man's  hrok«?n  heart. 

VIII. 

O  broken  heart,  O  broken  vow, 
That  wore  so  proud  a  feature  I 

God,  grasping  as  a  thunderbolt 
The  man's  rejected  nature. 

Smote  him  tlierewitli  i'  the  presence 
high 

Of  his  so  worshipped  earth  and  sky 

That  looked  on  all  indifferently  — 
A  wailing  human  creature. 

IX. 

A  human  creature  found  too  weak 

To  bear  his  human  jiain  : 
(May  Heaven's  dear  grace  have  spo- 
ken peace 

To  his  dying  heart  and  brain  !) 
For  when  tliey  came  at  dawn  of  day 
To  lift  the  lady's  corjise  away, 

Her  bier  was  holding  twain. 

X. 

They  dug  beneath  the  kirkyard  grass 

For  botli  one  dwelling  deep; 
To  which,   when  years  had  mossed 

the  stone, 
Sir  Koland  brought  liis  little  son 

To  watch  the  funeral  heaj): 
And    when    the    hajipy    boy    would 
rather 
Turn  upward  his  blithe  eyes  to  see 
The  wood-doves  nodding  from  the 
tree, 
"  Nay,  boy,  look  downward,"  said  his 

father, 
"  Upon  this  human  dust  asleeji. 
And  liold  it  in  thy  constant  ken 
That  God's  own  unity  compresses 
(One  into  one)  the  human  many, 
And  that  his  everlastingness  is 
The    bond  which    is    not  loosed  by 
any; 
That  thou  and  I  this  law  must  keep. 
If  not  in  love,  in  sorrow  then  — 
Though  smiling  not  like  other  men, 
Still,  like  them  we  must  weep." 


" 


I  »  ■  ♦  I 


THE  PtOMAUNT  OF  MARGRET. 


"  Can  ray  affections  find  out  nothing  bust, 
But  Btill  and  still  remove?  " 

tJUABLES. 


I  PLANT  a  tree  whose  leaf 

The  yew-tree  leaf  will  suit; 
But  when  its  shade  is-o'er  yoii  laid, 

Turn  round,  and  pluck  the  fruit. 
Now  reach  iny  harp  from  off  the  wall 

Where  shines  the  sun  aslant: 
The  sitn  may  shine  and  we  he  cold  ! 
O  liarken,  loving  hearts  and  bold, 

Unto  my  wild  romaunt. 

Margret,  Margret. 


II. 

Sitteth  the  fair  ladye 
Close  to  the  river-side 
"Which  runneth  on  with  a  merry  tone 
Her  merry  thoughts  to  guide: 
It  runneth  through  the  trees. 
It  runneth  by  the  hill, 
Nathless  the    lady's    thoughts    have 
found 
A  way  more  jileasant  still. 

Margret,  Margret. 


III. 

The  night  is  in  her  hair. 
And  giveth  shade  to  shade; 
And  the  pale  moonlight  on  her  fore- 
head white 
Like  a  spirit's  hand  is  laid; 
Her  lips  ])art  with  a  smile 
Instead  of  speakings  done: 
I  ween  she  thinketh  of  a  voice, 
Albeit  uttering  none. 

Margret,  Margret. 


IV. 

All  little  birds  do  sit 

With  heads  beneath  their  wings; 
Nature  doth  seem  in  a  mj'Stic  dream, 
Absorbed  from  her  living  things: 
268 


high 


cold 


That  dream  by  that  ladye 
Is  certes  ttnpartook. 
For    she    looketh    to    the 
stars 
With  a  tender  human  look. 

Margret,  Margret. 


The  lady's  shadow  lies 
Upon  the  running  river; 
It  lieth  no  less  in  its  quietness, 
For  that  which  resteth  never: 
Most  like  a  trusting  heart 

Upon  a  passing  faith, 
Or  as  upon  the  course  of  life 
The  steadfast  doom  of  death. 

Margret,  Margret. 

VI. 

The  lady  doth  not  move, 
The  lady  doth  not  dream; 
Yet   she   seeth   her   shade   no   longer 
laid 
In  rest  upon  the  stream: 
It  shaketh  without  wind, 

It  parteth  from  the  tide, 
It  standeth  upright  in  the  cleft  moon- 
light, 
It  sitteth  at  her  side. 

Margret,  Margret. 


VII. 

Look  in  its  face,  ladye, 
And  keep  thee  from  thy  swound; 
With  a  spirit  bold  thy  pulses  hold, 
And  hear  its  voice's  sound: 
For  so  will  sound  thy  voice 
When  thy  face  is  to  the  wall, 
And  such  will  be  thy  face,  ladye. 

When  the  maidens  work  thy  pall. 
Margret,  Margret. 


THE   ROM  AUNT   OF  MARGRET. 


269 


VIII. 

"  Am  I  not  like  to  thee  ?  " 
The  voice  was  calm  and  low, 
And  between  each  word  you  might 
have  heard 
The  silent  forests  grow: 
"  Tlie  like  may  sway  the  like ;  " 
By  which  mysterious  law 
Mine  "eyes  from  thine,  and  my  lips 
from  thine, 
The  light  and  breath  may  draw. 
Margret,  Margret. 


IX. 

"  My  lips  do  need  thy  breath. 
My  lips  do  need  thy  smile. 
And  my  pallid  eyne,   that  light    in 
thine 
Which  met  the  stars  ere  while: 
Yet  go  with  light  and  life, 
If  that  thou  lovest  one 
In  all  the  earth  who  loveth  thee 
As  truly  as  the  sun. 

Margret,  Margret. 


Her  cheek  had  waxed  white. 
Like  cloud  at  fall  of  snow; 
Then,  like  to  one  at  set  of  sun. 
It  wa:ied  red  also : 
For  love's  name  maketh  bold, 
As  if  the  loved  were  near: 
And  then  she  sighed  the  deep,  long 
sigh 
Which  cometh  after  fear. 

Margret,  Margret. 


XI. 

"  Now,  sooth,  I  fear  thee  not  — 
Shall  never  fear  thee  now  !  " 
(And  a  noble  sight  was  the  sudden 
light 
Which  lit  her  lifted  brow.) 
"  Can  earth  be  dry  of  streams, 
Or  hearts  of  love  ?  "  she  said; 
"  Who  doubteth  love  can  know  not 
love: 
He  is  already  dead." 

Margret,  Margret. 

XII. 

"I  have"  .  .  .  and  here  her  lips 
Some  word  in  pause  did  keep. 
And  gave  the  while  a  quiet  smile, 
As  if  they  paused  in  sleep,  — 


"  I  have  ...  a  brother  dear, 
A  knight  of  knightly  fame: 
I  broidered  him  a  knightly  scarf 
With  letters  of  my  name. 

Margret,  Margret 


XIII. 

"  I  fed  his  gray  gosshawk, 
I  kissed  his  fierce  bloodhound, 
I  sate  at  home  when  he  might  come, 
And  caught  his  horn's  far  sound: 
I  sang  him  hunter's  songs, 
I  poured  him  the  red  wine. 
He  looked  across  the  cup,  and  said, 
/  love  thee,  sister  mine." 

Margret,  Margret. 


XIV. 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass 
With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter; 
The  sounding  river  which  rolled,  for- 
ever 
Stood  dumb  and  stagnant  after: 
"  Brave  knight  thy  brother  is  ! 
But  better  loveth  he 
Thy  chaliced  wine  than  thy  chanted 
song, 
And  better  both  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret." 


XV. 

The  lady  did  not  heed 
The  river's  silence,  while 
Her  own  thoughts  still   ran  at  their 
will. 
And  calm  was  still  her  smile. 
"  My  little  sister  wears 
The  look  our  mother  wore: 
I  smooth    her    locks  with  a  golden 
comb, 
I  bless  her  evermore." 

Margret,  Margret. 


XVI. 

"  I  gave  her  my  first  bird 
When  first  my  voice  it  knewj 
I  made  her  share  my  posies  rare, 
And  told  her  where  they  grew: 
I  taught  her  God's  dear  name 
With  prayer  and  praise  to  tell: 
She  looked  from  heaven  into  my  face. 
And  said,  I  love  thee  loell." 

Margret,  Margret. 


I 


270 


Tni:   ROM  AUNT   OF   MARGRET. 


XVII. 

IT  trembled  on  tlie  grass. 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter; 
Yon  could  see  eath  bird  as   it  woke 
and  stared 
Through    the    shrivelled     foliage 
after. 
"  Fair  child  thy  sister  is  ! 
But  Itetter  loveth  she 
Thy  golden  comb  than  thy  gathered 
Hower.s, 
And  better  both  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret." 

XVIII. 

Thv  lady  did  not  heed 

The  withering  on  the  bough: 
Still  calm  her  smile,  albeit  the  while 
A  little  pale  her  brow: 
"  I  have  a  father  old, 
The  lord  of  ancient  halls; 
An  hundred  friends  are  in  his  court, 
Yet  only  me  he  calls. 

Margret,  Margret. 

XIX. 

"An   hundred   knights   are    in  his 
court, 
Yet  read  I  by  his  knee; 
And  when  forth'  they  go  to  the  tour- 
nej'  show 
I  rise  not  up  to  see: 
'Tis  a  weary  book  to  read. 
My  tryst's  at  set  of  sun ; 
But  loving  and  dear  beneath  the  stars 
Is  his  blessing  when  I've  done." 
Margret,  Margret. 

XX. 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter: 
And    moon   and   star,  thougli   bright 
and  far. 
Did  shrink  and  darken  after. 
"  High  lord  thy  father  is  ! 
But  better  loveth  he 
His  ancient  halls   than   his   hundred 
friends, 
His  ancient  halls,  than  thee, 

Margret,  Margret." 

XXI. 

The  lady  did  not  heed 
That  tlie  far  stars  did  fail; 
Still  calm  her  smile,  albeit  the  while  — 
Nay,  but  she  is  not  pale  ! 


"  I  have  more  than  a  friend 
Across  the  mountains  dim: 
No  other's  voice  is  soft  to  me. 
Unless  it  nameth  him." 

Margret.  Margret 


XXIT. 

"  Though  louder  beats  my  heart, 
I  know  his  tread  again. 
And  his  fair  plume  aye,  unless  turned 
away, 
For  the  tears  do  blind  me  then: 
We  brake  no  gold,  a  sign 
Of  stronger  faith  to  be; 
But  I  wear  his  last  look  in  my  soul, 
^^'hich  said,  /  Ioi-p  but  thee  ! "' 

Margret,  Margret. 


XXIII. 

IT  trembled  on  the  grass 

With  a  low,  shadowy  laughter; 
And  the  wind  did  toll,  as  a  passing 
soul 
^^'ere  sped  by  church-bell  after; 
And  shadows,  'stead  of  light, 
Fell  from  the  stars  above. 
In  flakes  of  darkness  on  her  face 
Still  bright  with  trusting  love. 

Margret,  Margret. 


XXIV, 

"He  loved  but  only  thee  ! 
Tliat  love  is  transient  too. 
The  wild  hawk's  bill  doth  dabble  still 
I'  the  mouth  that  vowed  thee  true: 
Will  he  open  his  dull  eyes. 
When  tears  fall  on  his  brow  ? 
Behold  the  death-worm  to  his  heart 
Is  a  nearer  thing  than  tliou, 

Margret,  Margret.'- 


XXV. 

Her  face  was  on  the  ground, 
None  saw  the  agony; 
But  the   men   at  sea  did  that  night 
agree 
They  heard  a  drowning  cry: 
And  when  the  morning  brake. 
Fast  rolled  the  river's  tide, 
With  the  green  trees  wavingoverhead. 
And  a  white  corse  laid  beside. 

Margret,  Margret 


JSOBEL\S    CHILD. 


271 


XXVI. 

XXVII. 

A  knight's  bloodhound  and  he 

Hang  up  my  harp  again  1 

The  funeral  watch  did  keep; 

I  have  no  voice  for  song. 

With  a  thought  o'  the  chase,  he  stroked 

Not    song,    but  wail,   and    mourners 

its  face, 

pale, 

As  it  howled  to  see  him  weep. 

Not  bards,  to  love  belong. 

A  fair  child  kissed  the  dead. 

0  failing  human  love  ! 

But  shrank  before  its  cold. 

O  light,  by  darkness  known  ! 

And  alone  yet  proudly  in  his  hall 

Oh  false,  the  while  thou  treadest  earth! 

Did  stand  a  baron  old. 

Oh  deaf  beneath  the  stone ! 

Margret,  Margret. 

Margret,  Margret. 

ISOBEL'S  CHILD. 


"  so  find  we  pi  ofit, 

By  losing  of  our  prayers." 

SHAKESPEARE. 


To  rest  the  weary  nurse  has  gone: 
An  eight-day  watch   had    watched 
.she. 
Still  rocking  beneath  sun  and  moon 

The  baby  on  her  knee. 
Till  Isobel  its  mother  said, 
"  The  fever  wanetli,  wend  to  l)ed. 
For  now  the  watch  comes  round  to 
me." 

II. 

Then  wearily  the  nurse  did  throw 
Her  pallet  in  the  darkest  place 
Of  that  sick-room,  and  slept  and 
dreamed  : 
For,  as  the  gusty  wind  did  blow 
The  night-lamp's  flare  across    her 
face. 
She  saw  or  .seemed   lo  see,   but 
dreamed. 
That  the  poplars  tall  on  the  opposite 

hill, 
The  seven  tall  poplars  on  the  hill, 
Did  clasp  the  setting  sun  until 
His  rays  dropped  from  him,  pined  and 
still 
As  blossoms  in  frost, 
Till  he  waned  and  paled,  so  weirdly 
crossed, 


To  the  color  of  moonlight  wliich  doth 

pass 
Over    the    dank    ridged    churchyard 

grass. 
The  poplars  held  the  sun,  and  he 
The  eyes  of  the  nurse  that  they  should 

not  see 
—  Not  for  a  moment,  the  babe  on  her 

knee, 
Though  she  shuddered  to  feel  that  it 

grew  to  be 
Too  chill,  and  lay  too  heavily. 

III. 

She  only  dreamed  ;  for  all  the  while 
"Twas  Lady  Isobel  that  kept 
The  little  baby:  and  it  sle]it 
Fast,  warm,  as  if  its  mother's  smile, 
Laden  with  love's  dewy  weight. 
And  red  as  rose  of  Harpocrate, 
Dropt  upon  its  eyelids,  prest 
Lashes  to  cheek  in  a  sealed  rest. 

IV. 

And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well : 
She  knew  not  that  she  smiled. 
Against  the  lattice,  dull  and  wild 
Drive  the  heavy,  droning  drops, 
Drop  by  drop,  the  sound  being  one; 


272 


JSOBEL'S    CHILD. 


As  momentl.y  time's  segments  fall 
Ou  the  ear  of  God,  wlio  hears  tlirough 
all 
Eternity's  unbroken  monotone. 
And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well : 
She  knew  not  that  she  smiled. 
The  wind  in  intermission  stops 
Down  in  the  beechen  forest, 

Then  cries  alond 
As  one  at  the  sorest, 
Self-stung,  self-driven, 
And  rises  up  to  its  very  tops, 
Stiffening  erect  the  branches  bowed, 
Dilating  with  a  tempest-sonl 
The  trees  that  with  their  dark  hands 
break 
Through  their  own  outline,  and  heavy 
roll 
Shadows  as  massive  as  clouds  in 
heaven 
Across  the  castle  lake. 
And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well. 
She  knew  not  that  she  smiled; 
She  knew  not  that  the  storm  was  wild ; 
Through  the  uproar  drear  she  could 

not  hear 
The  castle  clock  which  struck  anear : 
She  heard  the  low,  light  breathing  of 
her  child. 

V. 

Oh  !  sight  for  wondering  look, 
While  the  external  nature  broke 
Into  such  abandonment, 
Wliile  the  verj'  mist,  lieart-rent 
By  the  lightning,  seemed  to  eddy 
Against  nature,  with  a  din, — 
A  sense  of  silence  and  of  steady 
Natural  calm  appeared  to  come 
From  things  without,  and  enter  in 
The  human  creature's  room. 


VI. 

So  motionless  she  sate. 

The  babe  asleep  upon  her  knees. 
You  might  have  dreamed  their  souls 

had  gone 
Away  to  things  inanimate. 
In  such  to  live,  in  such  to  moan. 
And  that  their  bodies  had  ta'en  back. 

In  mystic  change,  all  silences 
That  cross  the  sky  in  cloudy  rack, 
Or  dwell  beneath  the  reedy  ground 
In  waters  safe  from  their  own  sound: 
Only  she  wore 
The  deepening  smile  I  named  before, 


And  that  a  deepening  love  exprest; 
And  who  at  once  can  love  and  rest  ? 


VII. 


In 


sooth    the    smile    that  then  was 
keeping 
Watch  upon  the  baby  sleeping, 

Floated  with  its  tender  light 
Downward,  from  the  drooping  eyes. 
Upward,  from  the  lips  apart, 

Over  cheeks  which  had  grown  whitt. 
With  an  eight-day  weeping  : 
All  smiles  come  in  such  a  wise 
Where  tears  shall  fall  or  have  of  old  -'- 
Like  northern  lights  that  fill  the  heart 
Of  heaven  in  sign  of  cold. 

VIII. 

Motionless  slie  sate. 
Her  hair  had  fallen  by  its  weight 
On  each  side  of  her  smile,  and  lay 
Very  blackly  on  the  arm 
Wliere  the  baby  nestled  warm, 
Pale  as  baby  carved  in  stone 
Seen  by  glimpses  of  the  moon 

Up  a  dark  cathedral  aisle; 
But  tlirough  the  storm  no  moonbeam 

fell 
Upon  the  child  of  Isobel  — 
Perhaps  you  saw  it  by  the  ray 

Alone  of  her  still  smile. 

IX. 

A  solemn  thing  it  is  to  me 

To  look  upon  a  babe  that  sleeps. 

Wearing  in  its  spirit-deexis 
The  undeveloped  mystery 

Of  our  Adam's  taint  and  woe, 
Which,  when  they  developed  be, 

Will  not  let  it  slumber  so; 
Lying  new  in  life  beneath 
The  shadow  of  the  coming  death. 
With  that  soft,  low,  quiet  breath, 

As  if  it  felt  the  sun; 
Knowing  all  things  by  their  blooms. 
Not  their  roots,  yea,  sun  and  sky 
Only  by  the  warmth  that  comes 
Out  of  each;  earth  only  by 

The  iJleasant  hues  that  o'er  it  run ; 
And  human  love  by  drops  of  sweet 

White  nourishment  still  hanging 
round 

The    little    mouth    so    slumber- 
bound  : 
All  which  broken  sentiency 
And  conclusion  incomplete. 

Will  gather  and  unite,  and  climb 
To  an  immortality 


hM»-»H 


ISOBEL  'S   CHILD. 


273 


Good  or  evil,  each  suljlime, 
Through  life  and  death  to  life  again. 
O  little  lids,  now  folded  fast, 
Must  ye  learn  to  drop  at  last 
Our  large  and  burning  tears? 
O  warm  quick  body,  must  thou  lie, 
When  the  time  comes  round  to  die, 
Still  from  all  the  whirl  of  years. 
Bare  of  all  the  joy  and  pain  ? 
O  small  frail  being,  wilt  thou  stand 
At  God's  right  hand, 
Lifting  up  those  sleeping  eyes 
Dilated  by  great  destinies. 
To  an  endless  waking?  thrones  and 
seraphim. 
Through  the  long  ranks  of  their  solem- 
nities. 
Sunning    thee    with    calm    looks    of 
Heaven's  surprise. 
But  thine  alone,  on  Him  ? 
Or  else,  self-willed,  to  tread  the  God- 
less place, 
(God  keep  thy  will !)  feel  thine  own 

energies 
Cold,  strong,  objectless,  like  a  dead 

man's  clasp. 
The  sleepless,   deathless    life  within 

thee  grasp. 
While  myriad  faces,  like  one  change- 
less face, 
With  woe,  not  love's,  shall  glass  thee 

everywhere. 
And  overcome   thee  with  tliiue  own 
desi)air  " 


X. 

More  soft,  less  solemn  images 
Drifted  o'er  the  lady's  heart 

Silently  as  snow. 
She  had  seen  eiglit  days  depart 
Hour  by  hour  on  bended  knees. 

With  pale  wrung  hands  and  pray- 
ings low 
And  broken,  through  which  came  the 

sound 
Of  tears  that  fell  against  the  ground. 
Making  sad  stops:  "  Dear  Lord,  dear 

Lord  { " 
She   still  had  prayed   (the  heavenly 

word 
Broken  by  an  earthly  sigh) 
—  '•  Thou  who  didst  not  erst  deny 
The  mother-joy  to  ISIarj-  mild, 
Blessed  in  the  blessed  child 
Which  barkened  in  meek  babyhood 
Her  cradle-hymn,  albeit  used 
To  all  that  music  interfused 
Tr»  breasts  of  angels  high  and  good  ! 


Oh,  take  not,  Lord,  my  babe  away  I 
Oh,  take  not  to  thy  songful  heaven 
The  pretty  babj-  thou  hast  given. 
Or  ere  that  I  have  seen  him  play 
Around  his  father's  knees  and  known 
That  hi'  knew  how  my  love  has  gone 
From  all  the  world  to  him. 
Think,  God  among  the  cherubim. 
How  I  shall  shiver  every  day 
In  thy  June  sunshine,  knowing  where 
The  grave-grass  keeps  it  from  his  fair 
Still  cheeks,  and  feel  at  every  tread 
His  little  body  which  is  uead, 
And  hidden  in  thy  tiirfy  fold. 
Doth   make    thj"  whole   warm   earth 

a-cold  ! 
O  God,  I  am  so  young,  so  j'oung  — 
I  am  not  used  to  tears  at  nights 
Instead  of  slumber  —  not  to  prayer 
With   sobbing   lips,   and   hands   out- 
wrung  ! 
Thou  knowest  all  mj-  prayings  were 
'  I    bless    thee,    God,    for  past  de- 
lights— 
Thank  God  ! '     I  am  not  used  to  bear 
Hard  thoughts   of   death;    the  earth 

doth  cover 
No  face  from  me  of  friend  or  lover: 
And  must  the  first  who  teaches  me 
The  form  of  shrouds  and  funerals  be 
Mine  own  first-born  beloved  —  he 
Who  taught  me  first  this  mother-love  ? 
Dear  Lord,  who  spreadest  out  above 
Thy   loving,    transpierced    hands    to 

meet 
All  lifted  hearts  with  blessing  sweet, 
Pierce  not  my  heart,  my  tender  heart 
Thou  madest  tender  !     Thou  who  art 
So  happy  in  thj'  heaven  alway, 
Take  not  mine  only  bliss  away  !  " 


XI. 


She 


so   had  prayed;   and   God,  who 

hears 
Through  seraph-songs  the   sound  of 

tears, 
From  that  beloved  babe  had  ta'en 
The  fever  and  the  beating  pain. 
And  more  and  more  smiled  Isobel 
To  see  the  baby  sleep  so  well. 
(She  knew  not  that  she  smiled,  I 

wis) 
Until  the  pleasant  gradual  thought 
Which  near  her  heart  the  smile  in 

wrought. 
Now  soft  and  slow,  itself  did  seem 
To  float  along  a  happy  dream, 
Beyond  it  into  speech  like  this- 


274 


ISOBLL-S    CHILD. 


xn. 

"  I  prayed  for  tliee,  uiy  little  child, 
And  God  has  heard  my  prayer  ! 

And  when  thy  babyhood  is  gone, 

We  two  togetlier  undefiled 

By  men's  repinings,  will  kneel  down 
Upon  his  earth  which  will  be  fair 

(Not    covering    thee,    sweet  !)   to    ns 
twain, 
And  give  him  thankful  praise." 

XIII. 

Dully  and  wildly  drives  the  rain: 
Against  the  lattices  drives  the  rain. 

XIV. 

"  I  thank  liim  now,  that  I  can  think 
Of  those  same  future  days, 

Nor  from  the  harmless  image  shrink 
Of  what  I  there  might  see.  — 

Strange  babies  on  their  mothers'  knee. 

AVhose  innocent  soft  faces  might 

From  off  mine  eyelids  strike  the  light. 
With  looks  not  meant  for  me  !  " 

XV. 

Gustily  blows  the  wind  through  the 

rain, 
As  against  the  lattices  drives  the  rain. 

X\'I. 

"  But  now,  O  baby  mine,  together 
We  turn  this  hope  of  ours  again 
To    many     an     hour     of     summer 
weather, 
When  we  shall  sit  and  intertwine 
Our  spirits,  and  instruct  each  other 
In  the    pure    loves    of    child    and 
mother ! 
Two  human  loves  make  one  divine." 

xvii. 
The  thunder  tears  through  the  wind 

and  the  rain. 
As  full  on  the  lattices  drives  the  rain. 

XVIII. 

"My    little    child,    what    wilt    thou 
choose  ? 
Now  let  me  look  at  thee  and  pon- 
der. 
What  gladness  from  the  gladnesses 

Futurity  is  spreading  under 
Thy  gladsome   sight?    Beneath    the 

trees 
Wilt  thou  lean  all  day,  and  lose 


Thy  spirit  with  the  river  seen 
Intermittently  between 

The  winding  beechen  alleys, — 
Half  in  labor,  half  repose. 

Like  a  shepherd  keeping  sheep, 

Thou,  with  only  thoughts  to  keep 
Which  never  a  bound  will  overpass. 
And  which  are  innocent  as  those 

That  feed  among  Arcadian  valleys 
Upon  the  dewy  grass  ?  " 


The  large  white  owl  that  with  age  is 
blind. 
That  hath  sate  for  years  in  the  old 
tree  hollow, 

Is  carried  away  in  a  gust  of  wind; 

His  wings  could  bear  him  not  as  fast 

As  he  goeth  now  the  lattice  past; 
He  is  borne  by  the  winds,  the  rains 
do  follow. 

His  white  wings  to  the  blast  outflow- 
ing. 

He  hooteth  in  going. 

And    still    in    the    lightnings   coldly 
glitter 
His  round  unblinking  eyes. 

XX. 

"  Or,  Viaby,  wilt  thou  think  it  fitter 

To  be  eloquent  and  wise,  — 
One  upon  whose  lips  the  air 

Turns  to  solemn  verities 
For  men  to  breathe  anew,  and  win 
A  deeper-seated  life  within  ? 
Wilt  be  a  philosopher, 

By  whose  voice  the  earth  and  skies 
Shall  speak  to  the  unborn  ? 
Or  a  poet,  Ijroadly  spreading 

The  golden  immortalities 
Of  thy  soul  ou  natures  lorn 

And  poor  of  such,  them  all  to  guard 
From     their     decay,  —  beneath     thy 

treading. 
Earth's  Howers  recovering    hues    of 

Eden, — 
And   stars   drawn  downward  by  thy 

looks, 
To  shine  ascendant  in  thy  books  ?  " 

XXI. 

The  tame  hawk  in  the  castle-yard. 
How  it  screams  to  the  lightning,  with 

its  wet 
Jagged  plumes  o\-erhanging  the  para- 
pet! 
And  at  the  lady's  door  the  hound 
Scratches  witli  a  crying  sound. 


ISOBEL'S    CHILD. 


275 


X  X  1 1 . 

"  But,  O  my  babe,  tliy  lids  are  laid 

Close,  fast  upon  tby  cheek. 
And  not  a  dream  of  ]>ower  and  sheen 
Can  make  a  passage  up  between. 
Thy  heart  is  of  thy  mother's  made, 

Thy  looks  are  very  meek, 
And  it  will  lie  their  chosen  place 
To  rest  on  some  beloved  face, 

As  these  on  thine,  ami  let  the  noise 
Of  the  whole  world  go  on,  nor  drown 

The  tender  silence  of  thy  joys: 
Or.when  that  silence  shall  have  grown 

Too  tender  for  itself,  the  same 
Vtiarning  for  sound,  —  to  look  abo\'e 
And  utter  its  one  meaning,  love, 

That  He  may  hear  His  name." 

XXIII. 

No  wind,  no  rain,  no  thunder  ! 
The  waters  had  trickled  not  slowly, 
The  thunder  was  not  sjtent. 
Nor  the  wind  near  finishing  : 
Who  would  have  said  that  the  storm 

was  diminishing? 
No  wind,  no  rain,  no  thunder  ! 
Their  noises  dropped  asunder 
From  the  earth  and  the  firmament. 
From  the  towers  ami  the  lattices. 
Abrupt  and  echoless 
As  ripe  fruits  on  the  ground  unshaken 
wholly 
As  life  in  death. 
And  sudden  and  solemn  the  silence 

fell. 
Startling  the  heart  of  Isobel 

As  the  tempest  could  not 
Against  the  door  went  panting  the 

breath 
Of  the  lady's  hound  whose  cry  was 
still. 
And  she,  constrainctl  howe'er  she 
would  not. 
Lifted  her  eyes,  and  saw  the  moon 
Looking  out  of  heaven  alone 
Upon  the  i)oplared  liill,  — 
A  calm  of  God,  made  visible 
That  men  might  bless  it  at  their 
will. 

XXIV. 

The  moonshine  ou  the  baby's  face 

Falleth  clear  and  cold; 
The  mother's  looks  have  fallen  back 

To  the  same  place: 
Hecause  no  moon  with  .silver  rack, 
Nor  broad  sunrise  in  jasper  skies. 
Has  power  to  hold 
Our  loving  eyes, 


Which  still  rtivert,  as  ever  must 
Wonder  and  Hope,  to  gaze  on  the 
dust. 

XXV. 

The  moonshine  on  the  baby's  face 

Cold  and  clear  remaineth; 
The  mother's  looks  do  shrink  away, 
The  mother's  looks  return  to  stay, 

As  charmed  by  what  paineth: 
Is  any  glamour  in  the  case  ? 

Is  it  dream,  or  is  it  sight  ? 
Hath  the  change  ui)on  the  wild 

Elements  that  signs  the  night, 
Passed  upon  the  child  ? 

It  is  not  dream,  but  sight. 

XXVI. 

The  babe  lias  awakened  from  sleep, 
And  unto  the  gaze  of  its  mother 
Bent  over  it,  lifted  another,  — 
Not  the  baby-looks  that  go 
Unaimingly  to  and  fro. 
But  an  earnest  gazing  deep 
Such  as  soul  gives  soul  at  length 

When  by  work  and  wail  of  years 
It  winneth  a  solemn  strength, 

And  mourneth  as  it  wears. 
A  strong  man  could  not  brook, 

With  pulse  unhurried  by  fears, 
To  meet  that  baby's  look 

O'erglazed  by  manhood's  tears, 
The  tears  of  a  man  full  grown. 
With  a  power  to  wring  our  own, 
In  the  eyes  all  undefiled 
Of  a  little  three-months'  child,  — 
To  see  that  babe-brow  wrought 
By  the  witnessing  of  thought 

To  judgment's  ])rodigy. 
And  the  small  soft  mouth  miweaued, 
By  mother's  kiss  o'erleaned, 
(Putting  the  sound  of  loving 
Where  no  sound  else  was  moving 

Except  the  speechless  cry) 
Quickened  to  mind's  expression, 
Shaped  to  articulation. 
Yea,  uttering  words,  yva.,  naming  woe. 

In    tones    that    w\X\\    it    strangely 
went. 

Because  so  baby-innocent. 
As  the  child  spalie  out  to  the  mother, 
so:  — 

XXVII. 

"  O  mother,  mother,  loose  thy  jirayer, 

Christ's  name  hath  made  it  strong. 
It  bindeth  me,  it  holdcth  me. 
With  its  nit)st  lo^■ing  cruelty. 


I 


276 


ISOBEL'S   CHILD 


From  Hoating  my  new  soul  along 

The  liappy  lieavenly  air. 
It  biniletli  me,  it  liohleth  me 

In  all  this  tlark,  upou  this  ilull 
Low  earth  by  only  weepers  troil. 
It  bimleth  me,  it  hokleth  me  ! 

Mine  angel  looketh  sorrowful 
Upon  the  face  of  God.i 

XXVIII. 

"  Mother,  mother,  can  I  dream 
Beneatli  your  eartlily  trees  ? 

I  had  a  vision  and  a  gleam; 
I  heard  a  sountl  more   sweet   than 
these 

When  rippled  by  the  wind: 
Did  you  see  the  Dove  with  wings, 
Bathetl  in  golden  glisterlngs 

from  a  sunless  light  behind. 
Dropping  on  me  from  the  sky, 

Soft  as  mother's  kiss,  until 

1  seemed  to  leap,  and  yet  was  still  ? 
Saw  you  how  his  love-large  eye, 

Looked  upon  me  mystic  calms, 
Till  the  power  of  His  divine 
Vision  was  indrawn  to  mine  ? 

XXIX. 

•'  Oh  the  dream  within  the  dream  ! 

I  saw  celestial  places  even. 
Oh  the  vistas  of  high  palms 

Making  finites  of  delight 

Through  the  heavenly  infinite. 
Lifting  up  their  green  still  tops 

To  the  heaven  of  heaven  ! 
Oh  the  sweet  life-tree  that  drops 
Shade  like  light  across  the  river 
Glorified  in  its  forever 

Flowing  from  the  Throne  ! 
Oh  the  shining  holiuesses 
Of  the  thousand,  thousand  faces 

God-sunned  by  the  throned  One, 
And  made  intense  with  such  a  love, 
That,  though  I  saw  them  turned  above, 
Each  loving  seemed  for  also  me  ! 
A.nd,.  oh  the  Unspeakable,  the  He, 
The  manifest  in  secrecies. 

Yet  of  mine  own  heart  partaker 
With  the  overcoming  look 
Of  One  who  hath  been  once  forsook, 

And  blesseth  the  forsaker  ! 
Mother,  mother,  let  me  go 
Toward  the  Face  that  looketh  so  ! 

Through  the  mystic  winged  Four 

'  "  For  I  say  unto  yoii  that  in  bcavon 
iboir  ana:els  do  always  beliold  the  faco  of  my 
Fatbor  which  is  in  'heaven."  — Matt,  xviii. 
10. 


Whose  are  inward,  outward  eyes 
Dark  with  light  of  mysteries 

And  the  restless  evermore 
"Holy,  holy,  holj'," — through 
The    sevenfold    lamps    that   burn  in 
view 

Of  cherubim  and  seraphim, 
Through  the  four  and  twenty  crowned 
Stately  elders  white  around, 

SufTer  lue  lo  go  to  Him  ! 

XXX. 

"  Is  your  wisdom  very  wise. 

Mother,  on  the  narrow  earth. 

Very  liajipy,  very  worth 
That  i  should  stay  to  learn  ? 
Are  these  air-corrupting  sighs 

Fashioned  by  unlearned  breath? 
Do  the  students'  lamps  that  burn 

All  night  illumine  death  ? 
Mother,  albeit  this  be  so. 
Loose  thy  i)rayer,  and  let  me  go 
Where  that  bright  chief  angel  stands, 
Apart  from  all  liis  brother  bands. 
Too  glad  for  smiling,  having  bent 
In  angelic  wilderment 
O'er  the  depths  of  God,  and  brought 
Reeling  thence  one  only  thought 
To  fill  his  own  eternity. 
He  the  teacher  is  for  me. 
He  can  teach  what  I  would  know: 
Mother,  mother,  let  me  go  ! 

XXXI. 

"  Can  your  poet  make  an  Eden 

No  winter  will  undo. 
And  light  a  starry  fire,  while  heed- 
ing 

His  hearth's  is  burning  too  ? 
Drown  in  music  the  earth's  din, 
And  keep  his  own  wild  soul  within 

The  law  of  his  own  harmony  ? 
Mother,  albeit  this  be  so, 
Let  ine  to  my  heaven  go ! 

A  little  harp  me  waits  thereby,  — 
A  harp  whose  strings  are  golden  all. 
And  tuned  to  music  spherical. 
Hanging  on  the  green  life-tree 
Where  no  willows  ever  be. 
Shall  I  miss  that  harp  of  mine  ? 
INIother,  no  !  the  Eye  divine 
Turned  upon  it  makes  it  shine; 
And,  when  I  touch  it,  poems  sweet, 
Like  separate    souls,   shall    fiy  from 

it, 
Each  to  the  immortal  fytte. 
We  shall  all  be  poets  there. 
Gazing  on  the  chiefest  Fair. 


THE   ROM  AUNT    OF   THE  PAGE. 


xxxri. 

"Love!    earth's    love!    and    can   we 

love 
Fixedly  where  all  things  move? 
Can  the  sinning  love  each  other  ? 
Mother,  mother, 
I  tremble  in  thy  close  embrace; 
I  feel  thy  tears  adown  my  face: 

Thy  prayers    do    keep    me  ont   of 
bliss,  — 
Oh  dreary  earthly  love  ? 
Loose  thy  prayer,  and  let  me  go 

To  the  place  which  loving  is, 
Yet  not  sad;  and  when  is  given 
Escape  to  thee  from  this  below, 
Thou  slialt  behold  me,  that  I  wait 
For  thee  beside  the  happy  gate, 
And  silence  shall  be  up  in  heaven 

To  hear  our  greeting  kiss." 

xxxiri. 

The  nurse  awakes  in  the  morning 
sun. 
And  starts  to  see  beside  her  bed 
The  lady  with  a  grandeur  spread 
Like  pathos  o'er  her  face,  as  ou,e 
God-satisfied  and  earth-undone. 
The  babe  upon  her  arm  was  dead; 
And  the  nurse  could  utter  forth   no 
cry, — 

was  awed  by  the  calm   in  the 
mother's  eye. 

XXXIV. 


She 


""Wake,  nurse  !  "  the  lady  said: 
"  We  are  waking,  — he  and  I,  — 
I  on  earth,  and  he  in  sky: 


And  thou  must  help  me  to  o'erlay 
With  garment  white  this  little  clay 
Which  needs  no  more  our  lullaby. 

XXXV. 

"  I  changed  the  cruel  prayer  I  made^ 
And  bowed  my  meekened  face,  ana 

prayed 
That  God  would   do  his  will;  and 

thus 
He  did  it,  nurse  !    He  parted  us; 
And  his  sun  shows  victorious 
The  dead  calm    face,  —  and   /  am 

calm. 
And    heaven    is  liarkening  a  new 

psalm. 

xxxvr. 

"  This  earthly  noise  is  too  anear, 
Too  loud,  and  will  not  let  me  hear 
The  little  harp.    My  death  will  soon 
Make  silence." 

And  a  sense  of  tune, 
A  satisfied  love  meanwhile 
Which    nothing  earthly   could  de- 
spoil, 
Saug  on  within  her  soul. 

XXXVII. 

Oh  you. 
Earth's  tender  and  impassioned  few, 
Take  courage  to  intrust  your  love 
To  Him  so  named,  who  guards  above 

Its  ends,  and  shall  fulfil  ! 
Breaking  the  narrow  prayers  that 

may 
Befit  your  narrow  liearts  away 
In  his  broad,  loving  will. 


THE  ROMAUl^T  OF  THE  PAGE. 


A  KNIGHT  of  gallant  deeds, 
And  a  young  page  at  his  side. 

From  the  holy  war  in  Palestine 
Did  slow  and  thoughtful  ride. 

As  each  were  a  palmer,  and  told  for 
beads 
The  dews  of  the  eventide. 


II 

"  O  young  page,"  said  the  knight, 

'■  A  noble  page  art  thou! 
Thou  fearest  not  to  steep  in  blood 

The  curls  upon  thy  brow; 
And  once  in  the  tent,  and  twice  in  the 
fight, 

Didst  ward  me  a  mortal  blow." 


27« 


THE   ROM  AUNT   OF   THE  PAGE. 


iir. 

"O  brave  knight,"  said  the  page, 

"  Or  ere  we  hither  came, 
We    talked    in    tent,    we    talked     in 
field. 
Of  the  bloody  battle-game; 
Bnt     here,     below     this     greenwood 
bough, 
I  cannot  speak  the  same. 

IV. 

"  Our  troop  is  far  behind. 
The  woodland  caliu  is  new, 

Our  steeds,  with   slow  grass-muffled 
lioofs. 
Tread  dee])  the  shadows  through; 

And  in  my  inind  some  blessing  kind 
Is  dropping  with  the  dew^. 


"  The  Avoodland  calm  is  pure: 

I  cannot  choose  but  have 
A  thought  from  these  o'  the  beechen- 
trees 

Which  in  our  England  wave. 
And  of  the  little  finches  fine 
Which  sang  there  while  in  Palestine 

The  waiTior-hilt  we  drave. 

vr. 

"  Methinks,  a  moment  gone, 

1  heard  my  mother  pray: 
I  heard,  sir  knight,  the  prayer  for  me 

Wherein  she  passed  away; 
And  I  know  the  heavens  are  leaning 
down 

To  hear  what  I  shall  say." 

VII. 

The  page  spake  calm  and  high, 

As  of  no  mean  degree; 
Perhaps  he  felt  in  nature's  broatl 

Full  heart  his  own  was  free: 
And  the  knight  looked  up  to  his  lifted 
eye, 

Then  answered,  smilingly, — 

VHI. 

"  Sir  iiage,  T  jiray  your  grace  ! 

Certes,  I  meant  not  so 
To    cross    your    pastoral    mood,    sir 
page. 
With  the  crook  of  the  battle- bow; 
But  a  knight  may  speak  of  a  lady's 

face, 
I  ween,  in  any  mood  or  place, 
If  the  grasses  die  or  grow. 


IX. 


"  And  this  I  meant  to  say, — 
My  lady's  face  shall  shine 

As  ladies'  faces  use,  to  greet 
My  page  from  Palestine: 

Or  speak  she  fair,  or  prank  she  gay. 
She  is  no  lady  of  mine. 


"  And  this  I  meant  to  fear,  — 

Her  bower  may  suit  thee  ill; 
For,  sooth,  in  that  same  field  and  tent 

Thy  talk  was  somewhat  still: 
And  fitter  thy  hand  for  my  knightly 
spear 
Than    thy    tongue    for    mv    lady's 
will." 

XI. 

Slowly  and  tliankfully 

The  young  page  bowed  his  head ; 
His  large  eyes  seemed  to  muse  a  smile, 

Until  he  blushed  instead; 
And  no  lady  in  her  bower,  pardi& 

Could  blush  more  sudden  red. 
"  Sir  knight,  thy  lady's  bower  to  me 

Is  suited  well,"  he  said. 

XII. 

Beati,  beati,  mortui! 

From  the  convent  on  the  sea, 

One  mde  off,  or  scarce  so  uigh. 

Swells  the  dirge  as  clear  and  high 

As  if  that,  over  brake  and  lea. 

Bodily  the  wind  did  carry 

The  great  altar  of  St.  Mary, 

And   the   fifty  tapers   burning   o'er 

it, 
Aiul  the   lady  abbess  dead   before 

it, 
And  the  chanting  nuns  whom  yes- 

ter  week 
Her  voice  did  (jharge  and  bless,  — 
Chanting  steady,  chanting  meek. 
Chanting  witli  a  solemn  breath, 
Because  that  they  are  thinking  les.-? 
Upon  the  dead  than  upon  death. 
Beati,  beati,  mortui! 
Now  the  vision  in  the  sound 
Wheeleth  on  the  wind  around; 
Now  it  sweepeth  back,  away,  — 
The  uplands  will  not  let  it  stay 
To  dark  the  western  sun: 
MortiH .'  away  at  last. 
Or  ere  the  page's  blush  is  past! 
Aud  the  knight   heard   all,   and   th# 

page  heard  none. 


THE  ROM  AUNT   OF   THE  PAGE. 


279 


XIII. 

"  A  boon,  thou  noble  knight, 

If  ever  I  served  thee! 
Though  thou  art  a  knight,  and  I  am  a 
page. 

Now  grant  a  boon  to  me; 
And  tell  me,  sooth,  if  dark  or  bright 
If  little  loved,  or  loved  aright, 

Be  the  face  of  thy  ladye." 

XIV. 

Gloomily  looked  the  knight  — 

"  As  a  son  thou  hast  served  me; 
And  would  to  none  I  had  granted 
boon, 
Except  to  only  thee! 
For  haply  then  I  should  love  aright, 
For  then  I  should  know  if  dark  or 
bright 
Were  the  face  of  my  ladye. 

XV. 

"  Yet  it  ill  suits  my  knightly  tongue 
To  grudge  that  granted  boon. 

That  heavy  price  from  heart  and  life 
I  paid  in  silence  down; 

The  hand  that  claimed  it,  cleared  in 
fine 

My  father's  fame:  1  swear  by  mine 
That  price  was  nobly  won! 

XVI. 

"  Earl  Walter  was  a  brave  old  earl. 
He  was  my  father's  friend; 

And  while  I  rode  the  lists  at  court. 
And  little  guessed  the  end, 

My  noble  father  in  his  shroud. 

Against  a  slanderer  lying  loud, 
He  rose  up  to  defend. 

XVII. 

"  Oh,  calm  below  the  marble  gray 
My  father's  dust  was  strewn! 

Oh,  meek  above  the  marble  gray 
His  image  prayed  alone! 

The  slanderer  lied;    the  wretch  was 
brave  — 

For,  looking  up  the  minster-nave. 

He  saw  my  father's  knightly  glaive 
Was  changed  from  steel  to  stone. 

XVIII. 

"  Earl  Walter's  glaive  was  steel, 

With  a  brave  old  hand  to  wear  it, 
And  dashed  the  lie  back  in  the  mouth 
Which  lied  against  the  godly  truth 
And  against  the  knightly  merit: 


The  slanderer,   'neath  the  avenger's 

heel, 
Struck  up  the  dagger  in  appeal 
From  stealthy  lie  to  brutal  force, 
And  out  upon  the  traitor's  corse 
Was  yielded  the  true  spirit. 

XIX. 

"  I  would  mine  hand  had  fouglit  that 
fight, 
And  justified  my  father  I 
I  would  mine  heart  had  caught  that 
wound. 
And  slept  beside  him  rather  ! 
I  think  it  were  a  better  thing 
Than  murdered  friend  and  marriage- 
ring 
Forced  on  my  life  together. 

XX. 

"  Wail  shook  Earl  Walter's  house; 

His  true  wife  shed  no  tear: 
She  lay  upon  her  bed  as  mute 
As  the  earl  did  on  his  bier. 
Till  —  '  Ride,  ride   fast,'  she   said   at 
last, 
'  And  bring  the  avenged's  son  anear  ! 
Ride    fast,  ride  free,  as    a  dart  can 

flee; 
For  white  of  blee  with  waiting  for 
me 
Is  the  corse  in  the  next  chambere.' 

XXI. 

"  I  came,  I  knelt  beside  her  bed; 

Her  calm  was  worse  than  strife. 
'  My  husband,  for  thy  father  dear. 
Gave  freely,  when  thou  wast  not  here, 

His  own  and  eke  my  life. 
A  boon  !      Of   that   sweet    child  we 

make 
An  orphan  for  thy  father's  sake, 

Make  thou,  for  ours,  a  wife.' 

XXII. 

"  I   said,    '  My   steed   neighs   in   the 
court. 
My  bark  rocks  on  the  brine. 
Ami  the  warrior's    vow  I  am  under 
now 
To  free  the  pilgrim's  shrine; 
But    fetch   the   ring,    and    fetch    the 
priest, 
And  call  that  daughter  of  thine. 
And  rule  she  wide  from  my  castle  on 
Nyde 
While  I  am  in  Palestine.' 


280 


THE  ROM  AUNT   OF   THE  PAGE. 


XXIII. 

"  In  the  dark  chambere,  if  the  liride 
was  fair, 
Ye  wis,  I  coukl  not  see; 
But  the  steed  thrice  neiglied,  and  the 
priest  fast  prayed, 
And  wedded  fast  were  we. 
Her  mother  smiled  upon  her  bed, 
As  at  its  side  we  Ivuelt  to  wed; 

And  the  bride  rose  from  lier  knee. 
And  kissed  tlie  smile  of  her  mother 
dead. 
Or  ever  she  kissed  me. 

XXIV. 

"My  page,   my   page,   what  grieves 
thee  so, 

That  the  tears  run  down  thy  face?" — 
"  Alas,  alas  !  mine  own  sister 

Was  in  thy  lady's  case: 
But  she  laid  dojvn  the  silks  she  wore, 
And  followed  him  she  wed  before, 
Disguised  as  his  true  servitor. 

To  the  very  battle-place.' "' 

XXV. 

And  wept  the  page,  but  laughed  the 
knight, 

A  careless  laugh  laughed  he: 
"  Well  done  it  were  for  thy  sister. 

But  not  for  my  ladye  ! 
My  love,  so  please  you,  shall  requite 
No  woman,  whether  dark  or  bright, 

Unwomaned  if  she  be.'  " 

XXVI. 

The  page  stopped  weeping,  and  smiled 
cold: 

"  Your  wisdom  may  declare 
That  womanhood  is  jn-oved  the  best 
By  golden  brooch  and  glossy  vest 

The  mincing  ladies  wear; 
Yet  is  it  proved,  and  was  of  old, 
Anear  as  well,  I  dare  to  bold. 

By  truth,  or  by  despair.'  " 

xxvii. 

He  smiled  no  more,  he  wept  no  more; 

But  passionate  he  spake: 
"  Oh,  womanly  she  prayed  in  tent. 

When  none  beside  did  wake  ! 
Oh,  womanly  slie  paled  in  fight, 

For  one  beloved's  sake  !  — 
And    her   little    hand,    defiled    with 

blood. 
Her  tender  tears  of  womanhood 

Most  woman-pure  did  make." 


XXVIII. 

—  "  Well  done  it  were  for  thy  sister, 
Thou  tellest  well  her  tale; 

But  for  my  lady,  she  shall  pray 

I'  the  kirk  of  IS'ydesdale. 
Not  dread  for  me,  but  love  for  me. 

Shall  make  my  lady  pale: 
No  casque  shall   hide    her  woman's 

tear, 
It  shall  have  room  to  trickle  clear 

Behind  her  woman's  veil." 

XXIX. 

—  "  But  what  if  she  mistook  thy  mind, 
And  followed  thee  to  strife. 

Then  kneeling  did  entreat  thy  love, 
As  Paynims  ask  for  life  ?  '' 

—  "I  would  forgive,  and  evermore 
Would  love  her  as  my  servitor. 

But  little  as  my  wife. 


Look  up  ! 


XXX. 

there  is 


a  small  bright 


cloud 

Alone  amid  the  skies: 
So  high,  so  pure,  and  so  apart, 

A  woman's  honor  lies." 
The  page  looked  up;  the  cloud  was 

sheen: 
A  sadder  cloud  did  rush,  I  ween, 
Betwixt  it  and  his  eyes." 

XXXI. 

Then  dimly  dropped  his  eyes  away 

From  welkin  unto  liill. 
Ha !   who  rides    there  ?    the  page  is 
'ware, 
Though  the  crj'  at  his  heart  is  still ; 
Anil  the  page  seeth  all,  and  the  knight 

seeth  none, 
Though  banner  and  spear  do  fleck  the 
sun. 
And  the  Saracens  ride  at  will. 

XXXII. 

He  speaketh  calm,  he  speaketh  low: 
"  Ride  fast,  my  inaster,  ride, 

Or  ere  within  the  broadening  dark 
The  narrow  shadows  hide." 

"  Yea,  fast,  my  page,  I  will  do  so, 
And  keep  thou  at  my  side." 

XXXIII. 

"  Now  nay,  now  nay,  ride  on  thy  way, 

Thy  faithful  jjage  precede: 
For  I  must  loose  on  saddle-bow 
My  battle-casque  that  galls,  I  trow, 


i 


Tffr.    ROM  AUNT   OF   Till-:  PAGi:. 


281 


Tlie  shoulder  of  ruy  steed; 
And  I  must  jiray,  as  I  did  vow, 
For  one  in  bitter  need, 

XXXIV. 

"  Ere  night  I  shall  be  near  to  thee, 
Now  ride,  my  master,  ride  ! 

Ere  night,  as  jiarted  spirits  cleave 

To  mortals  too  beloved  to  leave. 
I  shall  be  at  thy  side."    • 

The  knight  smiled  free  at  the  fantasy. 
And  adown  the  dell  did  ride. 

XXXV. 

Had  the  knight    looked    np    to    the 
page's  face. 
No  smile  the  word  had  won  : 
Had    the   knight    looked    up    to    the 
page's  face, 
I  ween  he  had  never  gone: 
Had   the   knight   looked  bac^k  to  the 
page's  geste, 
I  ween  he  had  turned  anon, 
For  dread  was  the  woe  in  the  face  so 

young, 
And  wild  was   the  silent  geste  that 

tlung 
Casque,  sword,  to  earth,  as  the  boy 
down  sprung 
And  stood  —  alone,  alone. 

XX.WI. 

He  clinched  his  hands  as  if  to  hold 

His  soul's  great  agony  — 
"  HaA'e  I  renounced  my  womanhood 

For  wifehood  unto  ///ee, 
And  is  this  the  last,  last  look  of  thine 

That  ever  I  shall  see  ? 

xxxvri. 

"  Yet  God  thee  save,  and  mayst  thou 
have 

A  lady  to  thy  mind, 
More  woman-proud,  and  half  as  true, 

As  one  thou  leav'st  behind  I 
And  God  me  take  with  Him  to  dwell, 
For  Him  I  cannot  love  too  well, 

As  I  have  loved  my  kind." 

XXX\'11I. 

Shk  looketh  up,  in  earth's  despair. 
The  hopeful  heavens  to  seek; 

That  little  cloud  still  Hoateth  tliere, 
Whereof  her  loved  did  speak: 

How  bright  the  little  cloud  appears  ! 

Her  eyelids  fall  upon  the  tears. 
And  the  tears  down  eitlicr  cheek. 


XXXIX. 

The  tramp  of  hoof,  the  flash  of  steel  — 
The  Paynims  r<Miii(l  her  coming  ! 

The  sound  and  sight  liave  made  her 
calm.  — 
False  i>age,  but  truthful  woman; 

She  stands  amid  them  all  unmoved: 

A  heart  once  broken  by  the  loved 
Is  strong  to  meet  the  foeman. 

XL. 

"Ho,   Cliristian    page!    art    keeping 
sheep, 
From      i)ouring     wine-cujis      rest- 
ing?"— 
"  I  keep  my  master's  noble  name 

l<""or  warring,  not  for  feasting; 
And  if  that  here  Sir  Hubert  were, 
My  master  brave,  my  master  dear, 
Ye  would  not  stay  the  questing." 

xi,r. 

"Where  is  th^'  master,  scornful  page. 
That  we  may  slay  or  bind  him  ?  "  — 

"Now  search  the  lea,  and  search  the 
wood. 
And  see  if  ye  can  find  him  ! 

Nathless,  as  hath  been  often  tried, 

Your  Paynim  heroes  faster  ride 
Before  liim  than  behind  him." 

XMI. 

"  Give  smoother  answei-s,  lying  page, 

Or  perish  in  the  lying  !  "  — 
"  I  trow  that  if  the  warrior  brand 
Beside  my  foot  were  in  my  hand, 

.  'Twere  better  at  replying  !  " 
They  cursed  her  deep,  they  smote  her 

low, 
They  cleft  her  golden  ringlets  through; 
The  Loving  is  the  Dying. 

XLIII. 

She  felt  the  cnuiter  gleam  down, 

And  met  it  from  beneath 
With  smile  more  bright  in  victory 

Than  any  sword  from  slieath. 
Which  flashed  across  her  li])  serene, 
Most  like  the  spirit-light  between 

The  darks  of  life  and  death. 

xr.iv. 

hiL/emisco,  i)t</emisco  ! 
From  the  convent  on  the  sea, 
Now  it  sweepeth  solemidy, 
As  over  wood  and  over  lea 


282 


THE  LAY   OF   THE  BROWN  ROSARY. 


Bodily  the  wind  did  carry 
The  great  altar  of  St.  Mary, 
And  the  tifty  tapers  paling  o'er  it, 
And    the    lady   abbess    stark    before 

it, 
And  the  weary  nuns  with  hearts  that 

faintly 
Beat  along  their  voices  saintly  — 
Jngemisco,  inyemisco  ! 


Dirge  for  abbess  laid  in  shroud 
Sweepeth  o'er  the  shroudless  dead. 
Page  or  lady,  as  we  said. 
With  the  dews  upon  her  head, 
All  as  sad  if  not  as  loud. 

Iiif/ernisco,  uu/emisco  ! 
Is  ever  a  lament  begun 
By  any  mourner  uniler  sun, 
Which,  ere  it  endeth,  suits  but  one^ 


THE  LAY  OF  THE  BROWN  ROSARY. 


FIRST  PART. 


"  Onoea,  Onora  !  "  her  inother  is  call- 
ing; 

She  sits  at  the  lattice  and  hears  the 
dew  falling 

Drop  after  drop  from  the  sycamores 
laden 

With  dew  as  with  blossom,  and  calls 
home  the  maiden: 
"Night  Cometh,  Onora  !  " 

II. 

She  looks  down  the  garden-walk  cav- 
erned  with  trees, 

To  the  limes  at  the  end  where  the 
green  arbor  is : 

"  Some  sweet  thought  or  other  may 
keep  where  it  found  her. 

While,  forgot  or  unseen  in  the  dream- 
light  around  her. 
Night  Cometh  —  Onora  !  "  ' 

in. 

She  looks  up  the  forest  whose  alleys 

shoot  on 
Like  the  mute    minster-aisles  when 

the  anthem  is  done. 
And  the  choristers,  sitting  with  faces 

aslant, 
Feel  the  silence  to  consecrate  more 

than  the  chant  — 
"Onora,  Onora ! " 


IV. 

And  forward  she  looketh  across  the 
brown  heath  — 

"Onora,  art  coming?"    What  is  it 
she  seeth  ? 

Nought,  nought  but  the  gray  border- 
stone  that  is  wist 

To  dilate,  and  assume  a  wild  shape  in 
mist  — 
"  My  daughter  !  "    Then  over 


V. 

The  casement  she  leaneth,  and  as  she 

doth  so 
She  is  'ware  of  her  little  son  playing 

below : 
"Now  where  is  Onora?"    He  hung 

down  his  head 
And      spake     not,    then    answering 
blushed  scarlet  red, — 
"  At  the  tryst  with  her  lover." 


VI. 

But  his  mother  was  wroth:  in  a  stern- 
ness quoth  she, 

"  As  thou  play'st  at  the  ball  art  thou 
playing  with  me. 

When  we  know  that  her  lover  to  bat- 
tle is  gone, 

And  the  saints  know  above  that  she 
loveth  but  one, 
And  will  ne'er  wed  another?" 


THE  LAY   OF   THE   BROWN   ROSARY. 


283 


VII. 

Then  the  boy  wept  aloud:  'twas  a  fair 

sight,  yet  sad, 
To  see  the  tears  run  down  the  sweet 

blooms  he  had. 
He  stamped  with  his  foot,  said,  "  The 

saints  know  I  lied 
Because  truth  that  is  wicked  is  fittest 

to  hide: 
Must  I  utter  it,  mother  ?  " 


V'lII. 

In  his  vehement  childhood  he  hurried 

within. 
And  knelt  at  her  feet  as  in  prayer 

against  sin; 
But  a  child  at  a  prayer  never  sobbeth 

as  he  — 
"Oh!    she  sits  with  the  nun  of  the 

brown  rosary. 
At  nights  in  the  ruin  — 


IX. 

"  The  old  convent  ruin  the  ivy  rots  off, 
Where  the  owl  hoots  by  day,  and  the 

toad  is  sun-proof. 
Where  no  singing-birds  build,  and  the 

trees  gaunt  and  gray 
As  in  stormy  seacoasts  appear  blasted 

one  way,  — 
But  is  this  the  wind's  doing  ? 


■'A  nuu  in  the  east  wall  was  buried 

alive, 
Who  mocked  at  the  priest  when  he 

called  her  to  shrive, 
And   shrieked  such  a  curse   as    the 

stone  took  her  breath. 
The  old  abbess  fell  backwards,  and 

swooned  unto  death. 
With  an  Ave  half  spoken. 


XI. 

"  I  tried  once  to  pass  it,  myself  and 

my  hound, 
Till,   as  fearing  the    lash,  down    he 

shivered  to  ground : 
A  brave  hound,  my  mother  !  a  brave 

hound,  ye  wot ! 
And  the  wolf  thought  the  same  with 

his  fangs  at  her  throat 
In  the  pass  of  the  Brocken. 


XII. 

"At  dawn  and  at  eve,  mother,  who 

sitteth  there 
With  the  brown  rosary  never  used  for 

a  prayer  ? 
Stoop  low,  mother,  low  !     If  we  went 

there  to  see. 
What  an  ugly  great  hole  in  that  east 

wall  must  be 
At  dawn  and  at  even  I 


xiir. 

"  Who    meet    there,   my    mother,   at 

dawn  and  at  even  ? 
Who  meet  by  that  wall,  never  looking 

to  heaven  ? 
O  sweetest  my  sister !    what   doeth 

with  thee 
The  ghost  of  a  nun  with  a   brown 

rosary, 
And  a  face  turned  from  heaven  ? 


XIV. 

"  St.  Agnes  o'erwatcheth  my  dreams, 

and  ere  while 
I  have  felt  through  mine  eyelids  the 

warmth  of  her  smile; 
But  last  night,  as  a  sadness  like  pity 

came  o'er  her. 
She  whispered,  '  Say  two  prayers  at 

dawn  for  Onora: 
The  Tempted  is  sinning.'  " 


XV. 

"Onpra,   Onora!"    They  heard  her 

not  coming. 
Not  a  step  on  the  grass,  not  a  voice 

through  the  gloaming; 
But  her  mother  looked  up,  and  she 

stood  on  the  floor. 
Fair  and  still  as  the  moonlight  that 

came  there  before. 
And  a  smile  just  beginning. 


XVI. 

It  touches  her  lips,  but  it  dares  not 

arise 
To  the  height  of  the  mystical  sphere 

of  her  eyes; 
And  the  large  musing  eyes,  neither 

joyous  nor  sorry, 
Sing  on   like  the  angels  in  separate 

glory 
Between  clouds  of  amber. 


284 


THE   LAY    OF    THE   BROWN  ROSARY. 


XVII. 

For  the  hair  droops  in  clouds  amber- 
colored  till  stirred 

Into  gold  by  the  gesture  that  comes 
with  a  word ; 

While  —  oh  soft !  —  her  speaking  is  so 
interwound 

Of  the  dim  and  the  sweet,  'tis  a  twi- 
light of  sound, 
And  floats  through  the  chamber. 


xvin. 

"  Since  thou  shrivest  my  brother,  fair 
mother,"  said  she, 

"  I  count  on  thy  priesthood  for  marry- 
ing of  me ; 

And  I  know  by  the  hills  tliat  the  battle 
is  done, 

That  my  lover  rides  on,  will  be  here 
with  the  sun, 
'Neath  the  eyes  that  behold  thee." 


XIX. 

Her  mother  sate  silent,  too  tender,  I 

wis. 
Of  the  smile  her  dead  father  smiled 

dying  to  kiss: 
But  the  boy  started  up  pale  with  tears, 

passion-wrought,  — 
"  Oh  wicked  fair  sister!  the  hills  utter 

nought; 
If  he  cometh,  who  told  thee  ?  " 


XX. 

"I  know  by  the  hills,"  she  resumed 

calm  and  clear, 
"  By  the  beauty  upon  them,  that  he  is 

anear: 
Did  they  ever  look  so  since  he  bade 

me  adieu  ? 
Oh,  love  in  the  waking,  sweet  brother, 

is  true 
As  St.  Agnes  in  sleeping  !  " 


XXI. 

Half  ashamed  and  half  softened,  the 

boy  did  not  speak. 
And  the  blush  met  the  lashes  which 

fell  on  his  cheek. 
She  bowed  down  to  kiss  him:  dear 

saints,  did  he  see 
Or  feel    on    her   bosom    the    bkown 

ROSAKY, 

That  he  shrank  away  weeping? 


SECOND   PART. 


A  bed. 


Onora  sleeping, 
not  near. 


Angels,  but 


First  Angel. 
Must  we  stand  so  far,  and  she 
So  very  fair  ? 

Second  Angel. 

As  bodies  be. 

First  Angel. 
And  she  so  mild  ? 

SecondAngel. 

As  spirits  when 
They  meeken,  not  to  God,  but  men. 

First  Angel. 
And  she  so  young,  that  I  who  bring 

Good  dreams  for  saintly  children, 
might 

Mistake  that  small  soft  face  to-night. 
And  fetch  her  such  a  blessed  thing. 
That  at  her  waking  she  would  weep 
For  childhood  lost  anew  in  sleep. 
How  hath  she  sinned  ? 

Second  Angel. 

In  bartering  love,  — 
God's  love  for  man's. 

First  Angel. 

We  may  reprove 
The  world  for  this,  not  only  her. 
Let  me  approach  to  breathe  away 
This  dust  o'  the  heart  with  holy  air. 

Second  Angel. 
Stand  oil !     She  sleeps,  and  did  not 
pray. 

First  Angel. 
Did  none  pray  for  her  ? 

Second  Angel. 

Ay,  a  child, 
Who  never,  praying,  wept  before: 
While  in  a  mother  undefiled 
Prayer  goeth  on  in  sleep,  as  true 
And  pauseless  as  the  pulses  do. 

First  Angel. 
Then  I  approach. 

Second  Angel. 

It  is  not  WILLED. 

First  Angel. 
One  word:  is  she  redeemed? 
Second  Ayigel. 

No  more  ! 
The  place  is  filled.        [Angels  vanish. 
Evil  Spirit  in  a  nun's  gai-b  by  the  bed. 
Forbear    that    dream,    forbear    that 
dream  !   too  near  to  heaven  it 
leaned. 
Onora  in  sleep. 
Nay,  leave  me  this,  —  but  only  this  ! 
'tis  but  a  dream,  sweet  fiend. 


I    ^m  I  ■  I  ^m 


THE  LAY   OF   THE  BROWN  ROSARY. 


285 


Evil  Spirit, 
It  is  a  thovf/ht. 

Onora  in  sleep. 
A  sleeping  thought,  most  innocent  of 

good: 
It  doth   the   Devil    no    harm,  sweet 

fiend  :  it  cannot  if  it  would. 
I  say  in  it  no  holy  hymn,  I  do  no  holy 

work, 
t  scarcely  hear  the  sabbath-bell  that 

chimeth  from  the  kirk. 
Evil  Spirit. 
Forbear    that    dream,    forbear    that 

dream  ! 
Onora  in  sleep. 

Nay,  let  me  dream  at  least. 
That  far-off  bell,  it  may  be  took  for 

viol  at  a  feast: 
I  only  walk  among  the  fields  beneath 

the  autumn  sun. 
With  my  dead  father,  hand  in  hand, 

as  I  have  often  done. 
Evil  Spirit. 
Forbear    that    dream,    forbear    that 

dream  ! 
Onora  in  sleep . 

Nay,  sweet  fiend,  let  me  go: 
I  nevermore  can  walk  with  him,  oh, 

nevermore  but  so  ! 
For  they  have  tied  my  father's  feet 

beneath  the  kirkyard  stone: 
Oil,     deep    and    straight,    oh,    very 

straight,   they  move  at    nights 

alone ; 
A-ud    then    he    calleth    through    my 

dreams,  he  calleth  tenderly, 
"Come  forth,  my  daughter,  my  be- 
loved, and  walk  the  fields  with 

me!" 
Evil  Spirit. 
Forbear  that  dream,  or  else  disprove 

its  pureness  by  a  sign. 
Onora  in  sleep. 
Speak  on,  thou  shalt  be  satisfied:  my 

word  shall  answer  thine. 
I  heard  a  bird  which  used   to  sing 

when  I  a  child  was  praying, 
I  see  the  poppies  in  the  corn  I  used  to 

sport  away  in: 
What  shall   I   do,  —  tread  down  the 

dew,    and    pull     the    blossoms 

blowing  ? 
Or  clap  my  wicked  hands  to  fright  the 

finches  from  the  roweu  ? 
Evil  Spirit. 
Thou  shalt  do  something  harder  still. 

Stand  up  where  thou  dost  stand, 
Among  the  fields  of  Dreamland,  with 

thy  father  hand  in  hand, 


And  clear  and  slow  repeat  the  vow, 

declare  its  cause  and  kind, 
Which  not  to  break,  in  sleep  or  wake, 

thou  bearest  on  thy  mind. 
Onora  in  sleep. 
1  bear  a  vow  of  sinful  kind,  a  vow  for 

mournful  cause; 
I  vowed  it  deep,  I  vowed  it  strong; 

the  spirits  laughed  applause; 
The  spirits   trailed  along    the    pines 

low  laughter  like  a  breeze, 
While,   high   atween  their   swinging 

tops,     the     stars    appeared    to 

freeze. 
Evil  Spirit. 
More  calm  and  free,  speak  out  to  me 

why  such  a  vow  was  made. 
Onora  in  sleep. 
Because  that  God  decreed  my  death, 

and  I  shrank  back  afraid. 
Have  patience,  O  dead  father  mine  ! 

I  did  not  fear  to  die. 
I  wish  I  were  a  young  dead  child,  and 

had  thy  company  ! 
I  wish  I  lay  beside  thy  feet,  a  buried 

three-year  child, 
And  wearing  only  a  kiss  of  thine  upon 

my  lips  that  smiled  ! 
The  linden-tree  that  covers  thee  might 

so  have  shadowed  twain; 
For  death  itself  I  did  not  fear — 'tis 

love  that  makes  the  pain : 
Love  feareth  death.     I  was  no  child; 

I  was  betrothed  that  day; 
I  wore  a  troth-kiss  on  my  lips  I  could 

not  give  away. 
How  could  I  bear  to  lie  content  and 

still  beneath  a  stone, 
And    feel    mine    own    betrothed    go 

by  —  alas !      no     more     mine 

own  — 
Go  leading  by  in  wedding  pomp  some 

lovely  lady  brave. 
With  cheeks  that  blushed  as  red  as 

rose,  while  mine  were  white  in 

grave  ? 
How  could  I  bear  to  sit  in  heaven,  on 

e'er  so  high  a  throne. 
And  hear  him    say  to  her  —  to  her, 

that  else  he  loveth  none  ? 
Though  e'er  so  high   I  sate    above, 

though  e'er  so  low  he  spake. 
As  clear  as  thunder  I  should  hear  the 

new  oath  he  might  take. 
That  hers,   forsooth,   were  heavenly 

eyes  —  ah  me,  while  very  dim 
Some     heavenly     eyes     (indeed     of 

heaven!)  would  darken  down  to 

him  ! 


THE  LAY   OF   THE  BROWN  ROSARY. 


Evil  Spirit. 
Who  told  thee  thou  wast  called  to 

death  ? 
Onora  in  sleep. 

I  sate  all  night  beside  thee: 
The  gray  owl  on  the  mined  wall  shut 

both  his  ej'es  to  hide  thee, 
And  ever  he  flapped  his  heavy  wing 

all  brokenly  and  weak, 
And  the  long  grass  waved  against  the 

sky,  around  his  gasping  beak. 
I  sate  beside  thee  all  the  night,  while 

the  moonlight  lay  forlorn 
Strewn  round  us  like  a  dead  world's 

shroud    in    ghastly    fragments 

torn; 
And  through  the  night,  and  through 

the  hush,  and  over  the  flapping 

wing, 
We  heard  beside  the  heavenly  gate 

the  angels  murmuring. 
We  heard  them  say,  "  Put  day  to  day, 

and  count  the  days  to  seven, 
And    God  will   draw  Onora  up  the 

golden  stairs  of  heaven: 
And  yet  the  evil    ones   have    leave 

that  purpose  to  defer ; 
For  if  she  has  no  need  of  Him,  He 

has  no  need  of  her." 
Evil  Spirit. 
Speak  out  to  me,  speak  bold  and  free. 
Onora  in  sleep. 

And  then  I  heard  thee  say, 
"  I  count  upon  my  rosary  brown  the 

hours  thou  hast  to  stay; 
Yet  God  permits  us  evil  ones  to  put 

by  that  decree. 
Since,  if  thou  hast  no  need  of  Him, 

He  has  no  need  of  thee: 
And,  if  thou  wilt  forego  the  sight  of 

angels,  verily 
Thy  true    love    gazing    on    thy  face 

shall  guess  what  angels  be; 
Nor  bride  shall  pass,  save  thee"  .  .  . 

Alas !    my  father's    baud's    a- 

cold. 
The  meadows  seem  .  ,  . 

Evil  Spirit. 
Forbear  the  dream,  or  let  the  vow  be 

told. 
Onora  in  sleep. 
I  vowed  upon  thy  rosary  brown,  this 

string  of  antique  beads. 
By   charnel  lichens  overgrown,  and 

dank  among  the  weeds. 
This    rosary  brown  which    is    thine 
own,  — lost  soul  of  buried  nun  I 
Who,   lost  by  vow,  wouldst    render 
now  all  souls  alike  undone,  — 


I  vowed   upon   thy  rosary   brown,  — 

and,  till  such  vow  should  break, 
A  pledge  always  of  living  days  'twas 

hung  around  my  neck,  — 
I    vowed    to    thee    on    rosary  (dead 

father,  look  not  so  !) 
/  loould  not  thank  God  in  my  weal,  nor 

seek  God  in  my  looe. 
Evil  Spirit. 
And  canst  thou  prove  .  .  . 
Onora  in  sleep. 

0  love,  my  love  !  I  felt  him  near  again  ! 

1  saw  his  steed  on  mountain-head,  I 

heard  it  on  the  plain: 
Was  this  no  Aveal  for  me  to  feel  ?    Is 

greater  weal  than  this  ? 
Yet  when  he  came  I  wept  his  name 

—  and  the  angels  heard  but  his. 
Evil  Spirit. 
Well  done,  well  done  ! 

Onora  in  sleep. 
Ah  me,  the  sun  !  the  dreamlight  'gins 

to  pine,  — 
Ah  me,  how  dread  can  look  the  dead  ! 

Aroyut  thee,  father  mine  ! 

She  starteth  from  slumber,  she  sitteth 

upright, 
And  her  breath  comes  in  sobs,  while 

she  stares  through  the  night. 
There  is  nought;  the  great  willow, 

her  lattice  before. 
Large-drawn  in  the  moon,  lieth  calm 

on  the  floor; 
But  her  hands  tremble  fast  as   their 

pulses,  and,  free 
From  the  death-clasp,  close   over  — 

the  BKOWN    ROSARV. 


THIRD    PART. 


'Tis  a  morn  for  a  bridal:  the  merry 

bride-bell 
Rings  clear  through   the  greenwood 

that  skirts  the  chapelle. 
And  the  priest  at  the  altar  awaiteth 

the  bride, 
And  the  sacristans  slyly  are  jesting 

aside 
At  the  work  shall  be  doing; 

II. 
While  down  through  the  wood  rides 

that  fair  company, 
The  youths  with   the  courtship,  the 

maids  with  the  glee, 


THE  LAY   OF   THE   BROWN   ROSARY. 


287 


Till   the  chapel-cross  opens  to  sight, 

and  at  once 
All    the    maids  sigh  demurely,    an<I 

think  for  the  nonce, 
"  And  so  endeth  a  wooing  !  " 

III. 

And  the   bride  and  the  bridegroom 

are  leading  the  way, 
With  his  hand  on  her  rein,   and   a 

word  yet  to  say: 
Her  dropt  eyelids  suggest  the    soft 

answers  beneath, 
And  the  little  quick  smiles  come  and 

go  with  her  breath 
"When  she  sigheth  or  speaketh. 

IV. 

And  the  tender  bride-mother  breaks 
off  unaware 

From    an    Ave,    to    think    that    her 
daughter  is  fair, 

Till  in  Hearing  the  chapel,  and  glan- 
cing before. 

She  seeth  her  little  son  stand  at  the 
door: 
Is  it  play  that  he  seeketh  ? 


Is  it  play  when  his  eyes  wander  inno- 
cent-wild, 

And  sublimed  with  a  sadness  unfitting 
a  child  ? 

He  trembles  not,  weeps  not:  the  pas- 
sion is  done. 

And  calmly  he  kneels  in  their  midst, 
with  the  sun 
On  his  head  like  a  glory. 


A'l. 


o 


fair-featured     maids,     ye      are 

many  !  "  he  cried, 
"  But  in   fairness  and  vileness  who 

matcheth  the  bride  ? 
O  brave-hearted  youths,  ye  are  many  ! 

but  whom 
For  the  courage  and  woe  can  ye  match 

with  the  groom 
As  ye  see  them  before  ye  ?  " 


VII. 

Out  spake  the  bride's  mother,  "The 

vileness  is  thine. 
If  thou  shame  thine    own    sister,   a 

bride  at  the  shrine  I  " 


Out  spake  the  bride's  lover,    "  The 

vileness  be  mine. 
If  he  shame  mine  own  wife  at  the 

hearth  or  the  shrine. 
And  the  charge  be  unproved  ! 

VIII. 

"  Bring  the  charge,  prove  the  charge, 
brother  !  speak  it  aloud: 

Let  thy  father  and  hers  hear  it  deep 
in  his  shroud  !  " 

—  "  O  father,  thou  seest,  for  dead  eyes 
can  see. 

How  she  wears  on  her  bosom  a  brown 

ROSARY, 

O  mv  father  beloved  !  " 


IX. 

Then  outlaughed  the  bridegroom,  and 

outlaughed  withal 
Both  maidens  and  youths  by  the  old 

chapel-wall ; 
"  So  she   weareth   no  love-gift,  kind 

brother,"  quoth  he, 
"  She    may  wear,   an  she    listeth,   a 

brown  rosary. 
Like  a  pure-hearted  lady." 


X. 

Then  swept  tlirough  the   chapel   the 
long  bridal  train ; 

Though   he  spake  to  the  bride,  she 
replied  not  again. 

On,  as  one  in  a  dream,  pale  and  state- 
ly she  went 

"Where  the  altar-lights  burn  o'er  the 
great  sacrament, 
Faint  with  daylight,  but  steady. 


XI. 

But  her  brother  had  passed   in  be- 
tween them  and  her. 

And  calmly  knelt  down  on  the  high 
altar-stair  — 

Of  an  infantine  aspect  so  stern  to  the 
view 

That  the  priest  could  not  smile  on  the 
child's  eyes  of  blue 
As  he  would  for  another. 


XII. 

He  knelt  like  a  child,  marble-sculp- 
tured and  white, 

That  seems  kneeling  to  pray  on  the 
tomb  of  a  knight, 


288 


THE  LAY   OF   THE  BROWN   ROSARY. 


With  a  look  taken  up  to  each  iris  of 

stone 
From  the  greatness  and  death  where 

he  kneeleth,  but  none 
From  the  face  of  a  mother. 

XIII. 

"In   your  chapel,  O  priest!  ye  have 

wedded  and  sliriven 
Fair  wives  for  the  hearth,  and   fair 

sinners  for  heaven; 
But  this  fairest,  my  sister,  ye  think 

now  to  wed, 
Bid   her  kneel  where  she  standeth, 

and  shrive  her  instead : 
Oh,  shrive  her,  and  wed  not!  " 

XIV 

In    tears,   the    bride's  mother,   "  Sir 

priest,  unto  thee 
Would  he  lie,  as  he  lied  to  this  fair 

company." 
In  wrath,  the  bride's  lover,  "  The  lie 

shall  be  clear!  — 
Speak  it  out,  boy!  the  saints  in  their 

niches  shall  hear: 
Be   the    charge    proved,   or    said 

not!" 

XV. 

Then,  serene   in    his    childhood,  he 

lifted  his  face. 
And  his  voice  sounded  holy,  and  fit 

for  the  place, 
"  Look  down  from  your  niches,  ye 

still  saints,  and  see 
How  she  wears  on  her  bosom  a  brown 

ROSAKY  ! 

Is  it  used  for  the  praying  ? 

XVI. 

The  youths  looked  aside,  —  to  laugh 

there  were  a  sin, — 
And  the  maidens'  lips  trembled  from 

smiles  sliut  within: 
Quoth    the  priest,  "Thou  art  wild, 

pretty  boy  !     Blessed  she 
Who   prefers  at  her  bridal  a  brown 

rosary 
To  a  worldly  arraying." 


XVII 

The  bridegroom  spake  low,  and   led 

onward  the  bride. 
And  before  the  high  altar  they  stood 

side  by  side ; 


The  rite-book  is  opened,  the  rite  is 

begun ; 
They  have  knelt  down  together  to  rise 

up  as  one. 
Who  laughed  by  the  altar  ? 

XVIII. 

The    maidens    looked    forward,    the 
youths  looked  around, 

The  bridegroom's  eye  flashed  from  his 
prayer  at  the  sound; 

And  each  saw  the  bride,  as  if  no  bride 
she  were. 

Gazing  cold  at  the  priest  without  ges- 
ture of  prayer. 
As  he  read  from  the  psalter. 

XIX. 

The  priest  never  knew  that  she  did  so, 

but  still 
He  felt  a  power  on  him  too  strong  for 

his  will; 
And  whenever  the  Great  Name  was 

there  to  be  read, 
His  voice  sank  to  silence;  that  could 

not  be  said. 
Or  the  air  could  not  hold  it. 

4 

XX. 

"I  have  sinned,"  quoth  he:  "I  have 

sinned,  I  wot;  " 
And    the    tears    ran  adown   his   old 

cheeks  at  the  thought: 
They  dropped  fast  on  the  book;  but 

he  read  on  the  same, 
And  aye  was  the  silence  where  should 

be  the  Name, 
As  the  choristers  told  it. 


XXI. 

The  rite-book  is  closed;  and,  the  rite 

being  done, 
They  who  knelt  down  together  arise 

up  as  one: 
Fair    riseth    the   bride  —  oh,    a    fair 

bride  is  she! 
But,  for  all  (think  the  maidens)  that 

brown  rosary. 
No  saint  at  her  praying! 


XXII. 


He 


What    aileth   the    bridegroom  ? 

glares  blank  and  wide. 
Then,  suddenly  turning,   he  kisseth 

the  bride: 


THE   LAY   OF   THE  BROWN  ROSARY. 


289 


His  lips  stung    her  with    cold;    she 
glanced  upwardly  mute: 

"Mine  own  wife,"  he  said,  and   fell 
6tark  at  her  foot 
In  the  word  he  was  saying. 

XXIII. 

They  have  lifted  him  n\)\  but  his  head 

sinks  away, 
And  his  face  showeth   bleak  in   the 

sunshine  and  gray. 
Leave  him  now  where  he  lieth;   for 

oh,  nevermore 
Will  he  kneel  at  an  altar,  or  stand  on 

a  floor! 
Let  his  bride  gaze  upon  him. 

XXIV. 

Long  and  still  was  her  gaze,  while 

they  chafed  him  there, 
And  breathed  in  the  mouth  whose  last 

life  had  kissed  her. 
But  when  they  stood  up  —  only  they  ! 

with  a  start 
The  shriek  from  her  soul  struck  her 

pale  lips  apart: 
She  has  lived,  and  forgone  him! 

XXV. 

And  low  on  his  body  she  droppeth 
adown. 

"Didst  call  me  thine  own  wife,  be- 
loved, thine  own  ? 

Then  take  thine  own  with  thee!  thy 
coldness  is  warm 

To  the  world's    cold   without    thee! 
Come,  keep  me  from  harm 
In  a  calm  of  thy  teaching." 


XXVI. 

She  looked  in  his  face  earnest-long, 

as  in  sooth 
There  were  hope  of  an  answer,  and 

then  kissed  his  mouth. 
And  with  head  on  his  bosom  wept, 

wept  bitterly,  — 
''Now,  O  God,  take  pity—  take  pity 

on  me ! 
God,  hear  mv  beseeching  !  " 


xxvii. 

She  was  'ware  of  a  shadow  that 
crossed  where  she  lay; 

She  was  'ware  of  a  presence  that 
withered  the  day: 


Wild  she  sprang  to  her  feet,  "  I  sur- 
render to  thee 

The    broken  vow's    pledge,   the    ac- 
cursed rosary, — 
T  am  ready  for  dying  !  " 

XXVIII. 

She  dashed  it  in  scorn  to  the  marble- 
paved  ground, 

Where  it  fell  mute   as  snow,  and  a 
weird  music-sound 

Crept  up,  like  a  chill,  up  the  aisles 
long  and  dim, 

As  the  fiends  tried   to  mock  at  the 
choristers'  hymn 
And  moaned  in  the  trying. 


FOURTH  PART. 

Onora  looketh  listlessly  adown  the 
garden-walk: 

"  I  am  weary,  O  my  mother,  of  thy 
tender  talk. 

I  am  weary  of  the  trees  a-waving  to 
and  fro. 

Of  the  steadfast  skies  above,  the  run- 
ning brooks  below. 

All  things  are  the  same  but  I,  —  only 
I  am  dreary. 

And,  mother,  of  my  dreariness  behold 
me  very  wearj\ 

"  Mother,   brother,   pull    the  flowers 

I  planted  in  the  spring. 
And  smiled  to  think  I  should  smile 

more  upon  their  gathering: 
The  bees  will  find  out  other  flowers 

— oh,  pull  them,  dearest  mine. 
And  carry  them  and  carry  me  before 

St.  Agnes'  shrine." 
— Whereat  they  pulled  the  summer 

flowers    she     planted     in     the 

spring, 
And  her  and  them  all  mournfully  to 

Agnes'  shrine  did  bring. 

She  looked  up  to  the  pictured  saint, 

and  gently  shook  her  head: 
"  The  picture  is  too  calm  for  me  —  too 

calm  for  me,"  she  said. 
"The  little  flowers  we  brought  with 

us,  before  it  we  may  lay, 
For  those  are  used  to  look  at  heaven ; 

but  /  must  turn  away: 
Because  no  sinner  under  sun  can  dare 

or  bear  to  gaze 
On  God's  or  angel's  holiness,  except 

in  Jesu's  face." 


A  ROMANCE   OF  THE   GANGES. 


She  spoke  with  passion   after  pause: 

"  And  were  it  wisely  done 
If  we  who  cannot  gaze  above  should 

walk  the  eartJi  alone  ? 
If  we  whose  virtue  is  so  weak  should 

have  a  will  so  strong, 
And    stand    blind    on    the  rocks    to 

choose  the  right  path  from  the 

wrong  ? 
To  choose  perhaps  a  love-lit  hearth, 

instead  of  love  and  heaven,  — 
A  single  rose  for  a  rose-tree  which 

beareth  seven  times  seven  ? 
A  rose  that  droppeth  from  the  hand, 

that  fadeth  in  the  breast. 
Until,  iu  grieving  for  the  worst,  we 

learn  what  is  the  best !  " 

Then   breaking    into    tears:     "Dear 

God,"  she  cried,  "  and  must  we 

see 
All  blissful  things  depart  from  us  or 

ere  we  go  to  Thee  ? 
"We  cannot  guess  thee  in  the  wood,  or 

hear  thee  in  the  wind  ? 
Our  cedars  must  fall  round  us  ere  we 

see  the  light  behind  ? 


Ay  sooth,  we  feel  too  strong  in  weal 
to  need  thee  on  that  road; 

But,  woe  being  come,  the  soul  is  dumb 
that  crieth  not  on  '  God.'  " 

Her  mother  could  not  speak  for  tears : 

she  ever  mused  thus, 
"  The  bees  ivill  Jind  out  other  ftoioers  — 

but  what  is  left  for  ns  ? 
But    her  young   brother   stayed    his 

sobs,  and  knelt  beside  her  knee, 
—  "  Thou  sweetest  sister  in  the  world, 

hast  never  a  word  for  me  ?  " 
She  passed  her  hand  across  his  face, 

she  pressed  in  on  his  cheek, 
So  tenderly,  so  tenderly,  she  needed 

not  to  speak. 

The  wreath  which  lay  on  shrine  that 

day,    at    vespers    bloomed    no 

more. 
The  woman  fair  who  placed  it  there 

had  died  an  hour  before. 
Both  perished  mute  for  lack  of  root 

earth's  nourishment  to  reach, 
O  reader,  breathe  (the  ballad  saith) 

some  sweetness  out  of  each  ! 


A  ROMANCE  OF  THE  GANGES. 


Seven  maidens  'neath  the  midnight 

Stand  near  the  river-sea, 
Whose  water  sweepeth  white  around 

The  shadow  of  the  tree. 
The  moon  and  earth  are  face  to  face, 

And  earth  is  slumbering  deep; 
The   wave-voice  seems  the  A'oice   of 
dreams 

That  wander  through  her  sleep. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

II. 

What    bring    they    'neath    the    mid- 
night. 

Beside  the  river-sea  ? 
They  bring  the  human  heart  whereiu 

No  nightly  calm  cau  be; 


That  droppeth  never  with  the  wind, 

Nor  drieth  with  the  dew: 
Oh,  calm  it,  God  !  thy  calm  is  broad 

To  cover  spirits  too. 

The  river  floweth  on. 


III. 

The  maidens  lean  them  over 

The  waters,  side  by  side, 
And    shun    each    other's    deepening 
eyes. 
And  gaze  adown  the  tide ; 
For  each  within  a  little  boat 

A  little  lamp  hath  put, 
And  heaped  for  freight  some    lily's 
weight, 
Or  scarlet  rose  half  shut. 

The  river  floweth  on. 


A   ROMANCE    OF   THE    GANGES. 


291 


IV. 

Of  shell  of  cocoa  carven 

Each  little  boat  is  made: 
Each  carries  a  lamp,   and  carries  a 
flower, 
And  carries  a  hope  unsaid; 
And  when  the  boat  hath  carried  the 
lamp 
Unquenched  till  out  of  sight, 
The  maiden  is  sure  that  love  will  en- 
dure; 
But  love  will  fail  with  light. 

The  river  floweth  on. 


"Why,  all  the  stars  are  ready 

To  sj'mbolize  the  soul,  — 
The  stars  untroubled  bj"  the  wind. 

Unwearied  as  they  roll; 
And  yet  the  soul  by  instinct  sad 

Reverts  to  symbols  low,  — 
To  that  small  flame  whose  very  name 

Breathed  o'er  it,  shakes  it  so. 

The  river  floweth  on. 


VI. 

Six  boats  are  on  the  river, 

Seven  maidens  on  the  shore, 
While  still  above  them  steadfastly 

The  stars  shine  evermore. 
Go,  little  boats,  go  soft  and  safe, 

And  guard  the  symbol  spark  ! 
The  boats  aright  go  safe  and  bright 

Across  the  waters  dark. 

The  river  floweth  on. 


VII. 

The  maiden  Luti  watcheth 

"Where  onwardly  they  float: 
That  look  in  her  dilating  eyes 

Might  seem  to  drive  her  boat: 
Her  eyes  still  mark  the  constant  fire. 

And  kindling  unawares 
That  hopeful  while,  she  lets  a  smile 

Creep  silent  through  her  prayers. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

VIII. 

The  smile  —  where  hath  it  wandered  ? 

She  riseth  from  her  knee, 
She  holds  her  dark,  wet  locks  away  — 

There  is  no  light  to  see  ! 
She  cries  a  quick  and  bitter  cry  — 

"  Nuleeni,  launch  me  thine  ! 
We  must  have  light  abroad  to-night, 

For  all  the  wreck  of  mine." 

The  river  floweth  on. 


IX. 

"  I  do  remember  watching 

Beside  this  river-bed 
When  on  my  childish  knee  was  leaned 

My  dying  father's  head: 
I  turned  mine  own  to  keep  the  tears 

From  falling  on  his  face: 
What  doth  it  prove  when  Death  and 
Love 

Choose  out  the  selfsame  pl.ice  ?  " 

The  river  floweth  on. 


"  They  say  the  dead  are  joyful 

The  death-change  here  receiving: 
Who  say  —  ah  me  !  who  dare  to  say 

Where  joy  comes  to  the  living? 
Thy  boat,  Nuleeni !  look  not  sad  — 

Light  up  the  waters  rather  ! 
I  weep  no  faithless  lover  where 

I  wept  a  loving  father." 

The  river  floweth  on. 


XI. 

"  My  heart  foretold  bis  falsehood 

Ere  my  little  boat  grew  dim; 
And  though   I   closed   mine  ej'es  to 
dream 

That  one  last  dream  of  him, 
They  shall  not  now  be  wet  to  see 

The  shining  vision  go: 
From  earth's  cold  love  I  look  above 

To  the  holy  house  of  snow."  i 

The  river  floweth  on. 


XII. 

"  Come  thou  —  thou  never  knewest 
A    grief    that    thou    shouldst    fear 
one  ! 
Thou  wearest  still  the  happy  look 
That  shines  beneath  a  dear  one: 
Thy  humming-bird  is  in  the  sun,^ 

Thy  cuckoo  in  the  grove, 
And  all  the  three  broad  worlds  for 
thee 
Are  full  of  wandering  love." 

The  river  floweth  on. 

'  The  Hindoo  heaven  is  localized  on  the 
summit  of  Mount  Meru,  one  of  the  moun- 
tains of  Himalaya  or  Himmaleh,  which  sig 
nifies,  I  believe,  in  Sanscrit,  the  abode  of 
snow,  winter,  or  coldness. 

2  Himadeva,  the  Indian  god  of  love,  Is  im- 
agined to  wander  through  the  three  worlds, 
accompanied  by  the  humming-bird,  cuckoo, 
and  gentle  breezes. 


292 


A    ROMANCE    OF   THE    GANGES. 


XIII. 

"  Why,  maiden,  dost  thou  loiter  ? 

What  secret  wouldst  thou  cover  ? 
That  peepul  cannot  hide  thy  boat, 

And  I  can  guess  thy  lover ; 
I  heard  thee  sob  his  name  in  sleep, 

It  was  a  name  I  knew: 
Come,  little  maid,  be  not  afraid, 

But  let  us  prove  him  true  !  " 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XIV. 

The  little  maiden  cometh. 

She  cometh  shy  and  slow ; 
I  ween  she  seeth  through  her  lids, 

They  drop  adown  so  low: 
Her  tresses  meet  her  small  bare  feet. 

She  stands,  and  speaketh  nought. 
Yet  blusheth  red  as  if  she  said 

The  name  she  only  thought. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XV. 

She  knelt  beside  the  water, 

She  lighted  up  the  flame, 
And  o'er  her  youthful  forehead's  calm 

The  fitful  radiance  came: 
"  Go,  little  boat,  go  soft  and  safe, 

And  guard  the  symbol  spark  !  " 
Soft,  safe  doth  float  the  little  boat 

Across  the  waters  dark. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XVI. 

Glad  tears  her  eyes  have  blinded, 

The  light  they  cannot  reach; 
She  turneth  witli  that  sudden  smile 

She  learnt  before  her  speech. 
"  I  do  not  hear  his  voice,  the  tears 

Have  dimmed  my  light  away; 
But    the   symbol   light   will  last   to- 
night. 

The  love  will  last  for  aye  !  " 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XVII. 

Then  Luti  spake  behind  her. 

Out  spake  she  bitterly: 
"  By  the  symbol  light  that  lasts  to- 
night 
Wilt  vow  a  vow  to  me  ?  " 
Nuleeni  gazeth  up  her  face. 
Soft  answer  maketh  she: 
"  By  loves  that  last  when  lights  are 
past 
1  vow  that  vow  to  thee." 

The  river  floweth  on. 


XVIII. 

An  earthly  look  had  Luti, 
Though    her    voice    was    deep    as 
prayer: 
"  The  rice  is  gathered  from  the  plains 

To  cast  upon  thine  hair;  i 
But  when  he  comes  his  marriage-band 

Around  thy  neck  to  throw. 
Thy   bride-smile    raise    to    meet    his 

gaze, 
And  whisper,  There  is  one  betrays, 
While  Luti  suffers  woe." 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XIX. 

"  And  when,  in  seasons  after, 

Thy  little  bright-faced  son 
Shall  lean  against  thy  knee,  and  ask 

What  deeds  his  sire  hath  done. 
Press  deeper  down  thy  mother-smile 

His  glossy  curls  among, 
VieM'  deep  his  pretty  childish  eyes, 
And  whisper.  There  is  none  denies, 

While  Luti  speaks  of  ioron<j. 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XX. 

Nuleeni  looked  in  wonder, 
Yet  softly  answered  she: 
"  By  loves  that  last  when  lights  are 
past 
I  vowed  that  vow  to  thee. 
But  why  glads  it  thee  that  a  bride-day 
be 
By  a  word  of  woe  defiled  ? 
That  a  word  of  wrong  take  the  cradle- 
song 
From  the  ear  of  a  sinless  child  ?  "  — 
"Why?"   Luti  said,  and  her  laugh 
was  dread, 
And  her  eyes  dilated  wild  — 
"  That  the    fair  new  love    may   her 
bridegroom  prove. 
And  the  father  shame  the  child  !  " 
The  river  floweth  on, 

XXI. 

"  Thou  flowest  still,  O  river. 
Thou  flowest  'neath  the  moon; 

Thy  lily  hath  not  changed  a  leaf,^ 
Thy  charmed  lute  a  tune: 

1  The  casting  of  rice  upon  the  head,  and 
tlie  fixing  of  the  band  or  tali  about  the  neck, 
are  parts  of  the  Hindoo  marriage  ceremonial. 

2  The  Ganges  is  represented  as  a  white 
woman,  witli  a  water-lily  in  her  right  hand, 
and  in  lier  left  a  lute. 


RHYME    OF   THE   DUCHESS  MAY. 


293 


! 


He  mixed   his  voice  with  thine,  and 
his 
Was  all  I  heard  around ; 
But  now,  beside  his  chosen  bride, 
I  hear  the  river's  sound." 

The  river  floweth  on. 

XXIJ. 

"  I  gaze  upon  her  beauty 

Through  the  tresses  that  inwreathe 
it: 
The  light  above  thy  wave  is  hers, 

My  rest  alone  beneath  it: 
Oh,  give  me  back  the  dying  look 

My  father  gave  thy  water  ! 


Give  back  —  and  let  a  little  love 
O'erwatch  his  weary  daughter  ! 

The  river  floweth  on. 

xxrii. 

"  Give  back  !  "  she  hath  departed, 

The  word  is  wandering  with  her; 
And  the  stricken  maidens  hear  afar 

The  step  and  cry  together. 
Frail  symbols  ?    None  are  frail  enow 

For  mortal  joys  to  borrow  ! 
"While    bright    doth    float    Nuleeni's 
boat. 

She  weepeth  dark  with  sorrow. 

The  river  floweth  on. 


RHYME  OF  THE  DUCHESS  MAY. 


To  the  belfry,  one  by  one,  went  the 
ringers  from  the  sun, 
{Toll  dowly) 
And  the  oldest  ringer  said,  "  Ours  is 
music  for  the  dead 
When  the  rebecs  are  all  done." 

II. 

Six  abeles  i'  the  churchyard  grow  on 
the  north  side  in  a  row, 
{Toll  slowly) 
And  the  shadows  of  their  tops  rock 
across  the  little  slopes 
Of  the  grassy  graves  below. 


III. 


On 


the  south    side   and  the  west  a 
small  river  runs  in  haste, 
{Toll  slowly) 
And,  between  the  river  flowing  and 
the  fair  green  trees  a-growing. 
Do  the  dead  lie  at  their  rest. 

IV. 

On  the  east  I  sate  that  day,  up  against 
a  willow  gray, 

{Toll  slowly) 
Through  the  rain  of  willow-branches 
i  could  see  the  low  hill-ranges, 
And  the  river  on  its  way. 


There  I  sate  beneath  the  tree,  and  the 

bell  tolled  solemnly, 
(Toll  sloivly) 
While  the  trees',  and   river's  voices 

flowed     between     the     solemn 


noises,  — 
Yet   death  seemed 


more    loud    to 


me. 


VI. 


There  I  read  this  ancient  rhyme  while 
the  bell  did  all  the  time 
{Toll  sloivly) 
And  the  solemn  knell  fell  in  with  the 
tale  of  life  and  sin. 
Like  a  rhythmic  fate  sublime. 


THE  RHYME. 


Broad  the  forests  stood  (I  read)  on  the 

hills  of  Linteged; 
;  {Toll  slowly) 

'And  three  hundred  years  had  stood 

mute  adown  each  hoary  wood, 
Like  a  full  heart  having  prayed. 


RHYME   OF   THE   DUCHESS  MAY. 


II. 

And  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the 
little  birds  sang  west; 
{Toll  slowly) 
And  but  little  thought  was  theirs  of 
the  silent  antique  years, 
In  the  building  of  their  nest. 


III. 

Down  the  sun  dropt  large  and  red  on 

the  towers  of  Linteged,  — 

{Toll  slowly) 

Lance  and  spear    upon    the    height, 

bristling  strange  in  fiery  light, 

"While  the  castle  stood  in  shade. 


IV. 

There  the  castle  stood  up  black  with 
the  red  sun  at  its  back, 
{Toll  sloioly) 
Like  a  sullen,  smouldering  pyre  with 
a  top  that  flickers  fire 
When  the  wind  is  on  its  track. 


And  five  hundred  archers  tall  did  be- 
siege the  castle  wall, 
{Toll  slowly) 
And  the  castle  seethed  in  blood,  four- 
teen days  and  nights  had  stood 
And  to-night  was  near  its  fall. 

VI. 

Yet  thereunto,  blind  to  doom,  three 

months  since,  a  bride  did  come, 

{Toll  slowly) 

One  who  proudly  trod  the  floors,  and 

softly  whispered  in  the  doors, 

"  May  good  angels  bless  our  home." 

VII. 

Oh,  a  bride  of  queenly  eyes,  with  a 

front  of  constancies, 

{Toll  sloivly) 

Oh,  a  l)ride  of  cordial  mouth  where 

the  untired  smile  of  youth 

Did  light  outward  its  own  siglis  ! 

VIII. 

Twas  a  duke's  fair  orphan-girl,  and 
her  uncle's  ward  —  the  earl, 
{Toll  sloivly) 
Who  betrothed  her  twelve  years  old, 
for  the  sake  of  dowry  gold, 
To  his  son  Lord  Leigh  the  churl. 


IX. 

But  what  time  she  had  made  good  all 

her  years  of  womanhood, 

{2"oll  sloivly) 

Unto  both  these  lords  of  Leigh  spake 

she  out  right  sovranly, 

"  My  will  runneth  as  my  blood. 


"  And  while  this  same  blood  makes 
red  this  same  right  hand's 
veins,"  she  said, 

{Toll  slowly) 
"  'Tis  my  will  as  lady  free,  not  to  wed 
a  lord  of  Leigh, 
But  Sir  Guy  of  Linteged." 

XI. 

The  old  earl  he  smiled  smooth,  then 
he  sighed  for  wilful  youth,  — 
{Toll  slowly) 
"  Good   my  niece,  that  hand  withal 
looketh     somewhat     soft     and 
small 
For  so  large  a  will  in  sooth." 

XII. 

She,  too,  smiled  by  that  same  sign; 
but  her  smile  was  cold  and  fine. 
{Toll  sloiohj) 
"  Little  hand  clasps  muckle  gold,  or 
it  were  not  worth  the  hold 
Of  thy  son,  good  uncle  mine." 

XIII. 

Then  the  young  lord  jerked  his 
breath,  and  sware  thickly  in  his 
teeth,  — 

{Toll  slowly) 
"  He  would  wed  his  own   betrothed, 
an  she  loved  him  an  she  loathed. 
Let  the  life  come,  or  the  death." 

XIV. 

Up  she  rose  with  scornful  eyes,  as  her 
father's  child  might  rise,  — 
(2b/;  slowly) 
"  Thy    hound's    blood,   my    Lord    of 
Leigh,  stains  thy  knightly  heel," 
quoth  she, 
"  And  he  moans  not  where  he  lies; 

XV. 

"  But  a  woman's  will   dies  hard,  in 

the  hall  or  on  the  sward  — 

{Toll  slowly) 


RHYME   OF   THE   DUCHESS  MAY. 


295 


L^ 


"  By    that    grave,    my    lords,   which 
made    me    orphaned    girl    and 
dowered  lady, 
I  deny  you  wife  and  ward  !  " 

XVI. 

Unto  each  she  bowed  her  head,  and 
swept  past  with  lofty  tread. 
{Toll  slowly) 
Ere  the  midnight-bell  had  ceased,  in 
the  chapel  had  the  priest 
Blessed  her,  bride  of  Linteged. 


xvri. 


Fast 


and  fain  the  bridal  train  along 
the  night-storm  rode  amain: 
( Toll  slowly) 
Hard  the  steeds  of  lord  and  serf  struck 
their  hoofs  out  on  the  turf, 
In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 

xvm. 
Fast  and  fain    the    kinsmen's    train 
along  the  storm  pursued  amain, 
{Toll  slowly) 
Steed  on  steed-track,  dashing  off, — 
thickening,   doubling,   hoof    on 
hoof, 
In  the  pauses  of  the  rain. 

XIX. 

And  the  bridegroom  led  the  flight  on 
his  red-roan  steed  of  might, 
{Toll  sloiuly) 
And  the  bride  lay  on  his  arm,  still,  as 
if  she  feared  no  harm. 
Smiling  out  into  the  night. 

XX. 

"  Dost  thou  fear  ?  "  he  said  at  last. 
"Nay,"  she  answered  him  in 
haste,  — 

{Toll  sloioly) 
"  Not  such  death  as  we  could  lind  : 
only  life  with  one  behind. 
Ride  on  fast  as  fear,  ride  fast !  " 

XXI. 

Up  the  mountain  wheeled  the  steed, 
girth  to  ground,  and  fetlocks 
spread, 

{Toll  slowly) 
Headlong  bounds,  and  rocking  flanks, 
—  down  he  staggered,  down  the 
banks. 
To  the  towers  of  Linteged. 


XXII. 

High  and  low  the  serfs   looked  out, 

red  the  flambeaus  tossed  about, 

{Toll  sloivly) 

In  the  courtyard  rose  the  cry,  "  Live 

the  duchess  and  Sir  Guy  !  " 

But  she  never  heard  them  shout. 

XXIIX. 

On  the  steed  she  dropped  her  cheek, 
kissed  his  mane,  and  kissed  his 

{Toll  sloioly) 
"  I  had  happier  died   by  thee    than 
lived  on  a  Lady  Leigh," 
Were  the  first  words  she  did  speak. 

XXIV, 

But    a    three-months'    joyaunce    lay 
'twixt  that  moment  and  to-day, 
{Tollslowhj) 
When  five  hundred  archers  tall  stand 
beside  the  castle-wall 
To  recapture  Duchess  May. 

XXV. 

And  the  castle  standeth  black,  with 

the  red  sun  at  its  back; 

{Toll  sloioly) 

And  a  fortnight's  siege  is  done;  and, 

except  the  duchess,  none 

Can  misdoubt  the  coming  wrack. 

XXVI. 

Then  the  captain,  young  Lord  Leigh, 
with  his  eves  so  gray  of  blee, 
{Toll  slowly) 
And  thin  lips  that  scarcely  sheath  the 
cold  white  gnashing  of  his  teeth, 
Gnashed  in  smiling,  absently, 

XXVII. 

Cried  aloud,  "  So  goes  the  day,  bride- 
groom fair  of  Duchess  May  ! ' ' 
( Toll  slowly) 
"  Look  thy  last  upon  that  sun  !  if  thou 
seest  to-morrow's  one 
'Twill  be  through  a  foot  of  clay. 

XXVIII. 

"  Ha,  fair  bride  !  dost  hear  no  sound, 
save  that  moaning  of  the 
hound?" 

{Toll  slowly) 
"  Thou  and  I  have  parted  troth;  yet  I 
keep  my  vengeance-oath. 
And  the  other  may  come  round. 


296 


^  I  ■  I  ^ 


RHYME    OF   THE  DUCHESS   MAY. 


XXIX. 

"  Ha !  thy  will  is  brave  to  dare,  and 
thy  new  love  past  compare;  " 
(Toll  slowly) 
"  Yet  thine  old  love's  falchion  brave 
is  as  strong  a  thing  to  have 
As  the  will  of  lady  fair. 

XXX. 

"  Peck  on  blindly,  netted  dove  !     If  a 
wife's  name  thee  behove," 
{Toll  slovdy) 
"  Thou  shalt  wear  the  same  to-mor- 
row, ere  the  grave  has  hid  the 
sorrow 
Of  thy  last  ill-mated  love. 

XXXI. 

"  O'er  his  fixed  and  silent  mouth  thou 
and  I  will  call  back  troth;  " 
(Tollsloivly) 
•'  He  shall  altar  be  and  priest;  and  he 
will  not  cry  at  least, 
'  I  forbid  you,  I  am  loath  ! ' 

,  XXXII. 

"  I  will  wring  thy  fingers  pale  in  the 
gauntlet  of  my  mail:  " 
( Toll  sloioly) 
"  '  Little  hand  and  mucklegold  '  close 
shall  lie  within  my  hold, 
As  the  sword  did  to  prevail." 

XXXIII. 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the 

little  birds  sang  west, 

(Toll  sloioly) 

Oh,  and  laughed   the  Duchess  May, 

and  her  soul  did  put  away 

All  his  boasting,  for  a  jest. 

XXXIV. 

In  her  chamlier  did  she  sit,  laughing 
low  to  think  of  it,  — 
(Toll  slowly) 
"Tower  is  strong,  and  will   is   free: 
thou  canst  boast,  my   Lord   of 
Leigh ; 
But  thou  boastest  little  wit." 

XXXV. 

In  her  tire-glass  gazed  she,  and  she 
blushed  right  womanly: 
(Toll  sloioly) 
She  blushed   half  from  her  disdain, 
half  her  beauty  was  so  plain; 
"  Oath  for  oath,  my  Lord  of  Leigh!  " 


XXXVI. 

Straight  she  called  her  maidens  in,  — 
"  Since  ye  gave  me  blame 
herein," 

(Toll  slowly) 
' '  That  a  bridal  such  as  mine  should 
lack  gauds  to  make  it  fine, 
Come  and  shrive  me  from  that  sin. 

XXXVII. 

"  It  is  three  months  gone  to-day  since 

I  gave  mine  hand  away:  " 

(Toll  sloioly) 

"  Bring  the  gold,  and  bring  the  gem, 

we  will  keep  bride-state  in  them. 

While  we  keep  the  foe  at  bay. 

XXXVIII. 

"On  your  arms  I  loose  mine  hair; 
comb  it  smooth,  and  crown  it 
fair: " 

(Toll  slowly) 
"  I  would  look  in  purple  pall  from 
this  lattice  down  the  wall. 
And    throw    scorn    to    one    that's 
there ! " 

XXXIX. 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the 
little  birds  sang  west : 
(Toll  slowly) 
On  the  tower  the  castle's  lord  leant 
in  silence  on  his  sword. 
With  an  anguish  in  his  breast. 

XL. 

With  a  spirit-laden  weight  did  he  lean 
down  passionate  : 
(Toll  slowly) 
They  have  almost  sapped  the  wall,  — 
they  will  enter  therewithal 
With  no  knocking  at  the  gate. 

XLI. 

Then  the  sword  he  leant  upon  shiv- 
ered, snapped  upon  the  stone: 
(Toll  sloioly) 
"  Sword,"    he    thought   with   inward 
laugh,  "  ill  thou  servest  for  a 
staff 
When  thy  nobler  use  is  done  I 

XLII. 

"  Sword,    thy    nobler    use    is    done ! 
tower  is  lost,  and  shame  begun." 
(Toll  slowly) 


II 


liHYME   OF   THE  DUCHESS  MAY. 


297 


If  we  met  them  in  the  breach,  hilt 

to  hilt,  or  speech  to  speech, 
"We  should  die  there,  each  for  one. 


XLIII. 

"  If  we  met  them  at  the  wall,  we 
should  singly,  vainly  fall;" 
{Toll  slowly) 
"  Exit  if  /die  here  alone,  —  then  I  die 
who  am  but  one. 
And  die  noblv  for  them  all. 


XLIV. 

"  Five  true  friends  lie,  for  my  sake,  in 
the  moat  and  in  the  brake;  " 
{Toll  slowly) 
"  Thirteen  warriors  lie  at  rest,  with  a 
black  wound  in  the  breast: 
And  not  one  of  these  will  wake. 


XLV. 

So,  no  more  of  this  shall  be.    Heart- 
blood  weighs  too  heavily  ;  " 
{Tollsloioly) 

And  I  could  not  sleej?  in  grave,  with 
the  faithful  and  the  brave 

Heaped  around  and  over  me. 


XLVI. 

"  Since  young  Clare  a  mother  hath, 
and  young  Ralph  a  plighted 
faith;" 

{Toll  sloivhj) 
"  Since  my  pale  young  sister's  cheeks 
blush   like  rose   when    Ronald 
si^eaks, 
Albeit  never  a  word  she  saith,  — 


XLVII. 


life- 


"  These  shall  never  die  for  me: 
blood  falls  too  heavily." 
{Toll  sloioly) 
"  And  if  I  die  here  apart,  o'er  my  dead 
and  silent  heart 
They  shall  pass  out  safe  and  free. 


XLviir. 

'  When  the  foe  hath  heard  it  said, 
'  Death  holds  Guy  of  Linteged,'  " 
{Toll  slovily) 
'  That    new  corse    new  peace    shall 
bring,   and    a    blessed,  blessed 
thing 
Shall  the  stone  be  at  its  head. 


XLIX. 

"  Then  my  friends  shall  pass  out  free, 
and  shall  bear  my  memory;  " 
( Toll  slowly) 
"  Then  my  foes  shall  sleek  their  pride, 
soothing  fair  ray  widowed  bride, 
Whose  sole  sin  was  love  of  me. 


"  With  their  words  all  smooth  and 
sweet,  they  will  front  her,  and 
entreat," 

{Toll  sloivly) 
"  And  their  purple  pall  will  spread 
underneath  her  fainting  head 
While  her  tears  drop  over  it. 

LI. 

"She  will  weep  her  woman's  tears,  she 
will  pray  her  woman's  prayers ; ' ' 
{Toll  slowly) 
"  But  her  heart  is  young  in  pain,  and 
her  hopes  will  spring  again 
By  the  suntime  of  her  years. 

LII. 

"  Ah,  sweet  May!  ah,  sweetest  grief! 
once  I  vowed  thee  my  belief  " 
{Toll  sloivly) 
"  That  thy  name  exjiressed  thy  sweet- 
ness,—  May  of    poets    in   com- 
pleteness I 
Now  my  May-day  seemeth  brief." 

LIII. 

All  these  silent  thoughts  did  swim  o'er 
his  eves  grown  strange  and  dim, 
{Toll  slowly) 
Till  his  true  men  in  the  place  wished 
thej'  stood  there  face  to  face 
With  the  foe,  instead  of  him. 

LIV. 

"  One  last  oath,  my  friends  that  wear 
faithful  hearts  to  do  and  dare!  " 
{Toll  slowly) 
"  Tower  must  fall,  and  bride  be  lost: 
swear    me    service    worth    the 
cost !  " 
Bold  they  stood  around  to  swear. 

LV. 

"  Each  man  clasp  my  hand,  and  swear, 
by  the  deed  we  failed  in  there," 
{Toll  slowly) 


298 


RHYME    OF   THE  DUCHESS   MAT. 


Not  for  vengeance,  not  for  right,  will 

ye  strike  one  blow  to-night!  " 
Pale  they  stood  around  to  swear. 

tiVI. 

One  last  boon,  young  Ralph  and 
Clare  !  faithful  hearts  to  do  and 
dare !  " 

( Toll  slowly) 

Bring  that  steed  up  from  his  stall, 
which  she  kissed  before  you  all, 

Guide  him  up  the  turret-stair. 


LVII. 


^Ye 


shall  harness  him   aright,  and 
lead  upward  to  this  height;  " 
{Toll  sloioly) 
"  Once  in  love,  and  twice  in  war,  hath 
he  borne  me  strong  and  far: 
He  shall  bear  me  far  to-night." 


LVIII. 

Then  his  men  looked  to  and  fro  when 
they  heard  him  speaking  so, 
(Toll  sloirly) 
"  'Las !      the     noble     heart,"      they 
thought:  "  he,  in  sooth,  is  grief- 
distraught: 
Would  we  stood  here  with  the  foe  !  " 


1,1  X. 

But  a  fire  flashed  from  his  eye  'twixt 
their  thought  and  their  reply,  — 
(Toll  sloioly) 
"Have  ye  so  much  time  to  waste? 
We  who  ride  here    must  ride 
fast 
As  we  wish  our  foes  to  fly." 

LX. 

They  have  fetched    the    steed    with 
care,  in  the  harness  he  did  wear, 
( Toll  sloivly) 
Past  the  court,  and  through  the  doors, 
across  the  rushes  of  the  floors ; 
But  they  goad  him  up  the  stair. 

LXI. 

Then,  from  out  her  bower  chambere, 

did  the  Duchess  Mav  repair: 

(Toll  sloioly) 

"  Tell  me  now  what  is  your  need," 

said  the  lady,  "  of  this  steed, 

That  ye  goad  him  up  the  stair  ?  " 


LXII. 

Calm  she  stood;  unbodkined  through 
fell  her  dark  hair  to  her  shoe; 
(Toll  slowly) 
And  the  smile  upon  her  face,  ere  she 
left  the  tiring-glass, 
Had  not  time  enough  to  go. 

LXIIl. 

"  Get  thee  back,  sweet  Duchess  May  I 
hope  is  gone  like  yesterday:  " 
(Toll  slowly) 
"  One  half-hour  completes  the  breach; 
and    thy    lord    grows    wild    of 
speech  — 
Get  thee  in,  sweet  lady,  and  pray  I 

LXIV. 

"  In  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all, 
loud  he  cries  for  steed  from 
stall;  " 

(Toll  slowly) 

"  He  would  ride  as  far,"  quoth  he, 

"  as  for  love  and  victory. 

Though  he  rides  the  castle-wall." 

LXV. 

"  And  we  fetch  the  steed  from  stalf, 
up  where  never  a  hoof  did 
fall"  — 

( 'Toll  slowly) 
"  Wifely  prayer  meets  deathly  need: 
may  the    sweet    heavens    hear 
thee  plead 
If  he  rides  the  castle-wall  !  " 

LXVI. 

Low  she  dropt  her  head,  and  lower, 
till  her  hair  coiled  on  the  floor, 
(Toll  sloioly) 
And  tear  after  tear  you  heard  fall  dis- 
tinct as  any  word 
Which  you  might  be  listening  for, 

rxvii. 

"  Get  thee  in,  thou  soft  ladye  I  here 
is  never  a  place  for  thee  !  " 
( Toll  slowly) 
"  Braid  thine  hair,  and  clasp  thy  gown, 
that  thy  beauty  in  its  moan 
May    find    grace    with    Leigh    of 
Leigh." 

LXVIII. 

She  stood  up  in  bitter  case,  with  a 
pale  yet  steady  face, 
(Toll  sloioly) 


RH  YME    OF   THE   D  U CHESS   AfA  V 


299 


II 


Like  a  statue  tlnniderstnick,  wliicli. 
thmifjli  quivering,  seems  to  look 
Right  against  tlie  thunder-plaee. 

LXIX. 

And  her  foot  trod  in  Avitli  pride  lier 
own  tears  i'  the  stone  beside: 
(Toll  slow! I/) 
"  Go  to,  faithful  friends,  go  to  !  judge 
no  more  wliat  ladies  do, 
No,  nor  how  their  lords  may  ride  !  " 


•       LXX. 

Then  the  good  steed's  rein  she  took, 

and  his  neck  did  kiss  and  stroke : 

(Toll  slowly) 

Soft  he  neighed   to  answer  her,  and 

then  followed  up  the  stair 

For  the  love  of  her  sweet  look. 


LXXI. 

Oh,  and   steeply,  steeph'   wound   up 
the  narrow  stair  around, 
( Toll  slowly) 
Oh,    and    closelj',    closely    speeding, 
step  by  step  beside  her  treading. 
Did  he  follow,  meek  as  hound. 


LXXII. 

On  the  east  tower,  high'st  of  all,  — 
there,  where  never  a  hoof  did 
fall,— 

(Toll  shncly) 
Out  they  swept,  a  vision  steady,  nolile 
steed  and  lovely  lady, 
Calm  as  if  in  bower  or  stall. 


Lxxni. 

Down  she  knelt  at  her  lord's  knee, 
and  she  looked  up  silently, 
(Toll  sloirly) 
And  he  kissed  her  twice  and  thrice, 
for  that  look  within  her  eyes 
Which  he  could  not  bear  to  see. 


LXXIV. 

Quoth  he,  "  Get  thee  from  this  strife, 
and  the  sweet  saints  bless  thy 
life  !  " 

(Toll  slowly) 

"In  this  liour  I  stand  in  need  of  my 
noble  red-roan  steed, 

But  no  more  of  my  noble  wife." 


i-x.\v. 

Quoth  she,  "  ^Meekly  have  I  done  all 

thy  biddings  under  sun;  " 

(Toll  sloirly) 

"  But  by  all  my  womanhood,  which 

is  proved  so,  true  and  good, 

I  will  never  do  this  one. 

LXXVI. 

"  Now  by  womanhood's  degree  and 
by  wifehood's  verity," 
( Toll  slowly) 

"  In  this  hour,  if  thou  hast  need  of  thy 
noble  red-roan  steed, 

Thou  hast  also  need  of  me. 

LXXVII. 

"  By  this  golden  ring  ye  see  on  this 

lifted  hand  pardie," 

( Toll  slowly) 

"  If  this  hour,  on  castle-wall  can  be 

room  for  steed  from  .stall. 

Shall  be  also  room  for  inc. 

Lxxvm. 

"  So  the  sweet  saints  with  me  be  !  " 
(did  she  ntter  solemnlv) 
(Toll  slowly) 

"  If  a  man,  this  eventide,  on  this  cas- 
tle-wall will  ride. 

He  shall  ride  the  same  with  mc" 

LXXIX. 

Oh,  he  sprang  up  in  the  selle,  and  he 

laughed  out  bitter-well,  — 

(Toll  slowly) 

' '  Wouldst  thou  ride  among  the  leaves, 

as  we  used  on  other  eves. 

To  hear  chime  a  vesper-bell  ?  " 

LXXX. 

She  clung  closer  to  his  knee  —  "  Ay, 

beneath  the  cypress-tree!  " 

(  Toll  slowly) 

"Mock  me  not;  for  otherwhere  than 

along  the  greenwood  fair 

Have  I  ridden  fast  with  thee. 

I.XXXI. 

"  Fast  I  rode  with  new-made  vows 
from  my  angry  kinsman's 
house: " 

(Tidlsloicly) 
"  AVhat !  and  would  you  men  should 
reck  that  I  dared  more  for  love's 
sake 
As  a  bride  than  as  a  spouse  ? 


T 


300 


RHYME    OF   THE   DUCHESS   MAY. 


LXXXII.     ' 

"  What !  and  would  you  it  should  fall, 
as  a  proverb,  before  all," 
(Toll  slou-bi) 
"That  a  liride  may  keep  your  side 
while   through   eastle-gate   you 
ride, 
Yet  eschew  the  castle-wall  ?  " 


LXXXIII. 

Ho!  the  breach  yawns  into  ruin,  and 

roars  up  against  her  suing, 

( Toll  slowly) 

"With   the   inarticulate   din,    and    the 

dreadful  falling-in  — 

Shrieks  of  doing  and  undoing  ! 


Lxxxrv. 
Twice  he  wrung  her  hands  in  twain; 
but    the    small    hands    closed 
again. 

( Toll  sloivly) 
Back    he    reined   the    steed  — back, 
back!  but  she  trailed  along  his 
track 
A^'ith  a  frantic  clasp  and  strain. 


LXXXV. 

Evermore  the  foemen  pour  through 
the  crash  of  window  and  door, 
(Toll  slowly) 
And  the  shouts  of  Leigh  and  Leigh, 
and  the  shrieks  of  "  Kill!  "  and 
"Flee!" 
Strike  up  clear  amid  the  roar. 


LXXXVI. 

Thrice  he  wrung  her  hands  in  twain; 
but  thev  closed  antl  clung  again, 
(Toll  sloioly) 
While  she  clung,  as   one,  withstood, 
clasps  a  Christ  upon  the  rood, 
In  a  spasm  of  deathly  paiu. 

LXXXVII. 

She  clung  wild,  and  she  clung  mute, 
with  her  shuddering  lips  half- 
.shut; 

(Toll  sloidy) 
Her  head  fallen  as  half  in  swound, 
hair  and    knee    swept  on    the 
ground. 
She  c^ung  wild  to  stirrup  and  foot. 


LXXXVIII. 

Back  he  reined  his  steed  back-thrown 
on  the  slipperv  coping-stone;  i 
(Tollsloirhf) 
Back  the  iron  hoofs  did  grind  on  the 
battlement  behind, 
"Whence  a  Inuulrcd  feet  went  down; 

I.XXXIX. 

And  his  heel  did  press  and  goad  on 
the  quivering  flank  bestrode,  — 
(Toll  slowly) 
"  Friends  and  brothers,  save  my  wife! 
Pardon,    sweet,   in    change    for 
life: 
But  I  ride  alone  to  God." 

xr. 

Straight,  as  if  the  holy  name  had  up- 
breathed  her  like  a  flame, 
(Toll  slowly) 
She  upsprang,  she  rose  upright,  in  his 
selle  she  sate  iu  sight. 
By  her  love  she  overcame. 

xci. 

And  her  head  was  on  his  breast,  where 

she  smiled  as  one  at  rest,  — 

(Toll  slowly) 

"Ring,"  .she  cried,  "  O  vesper-bell,  in 

the  beechwood's  old  chapelle. 

But  the  passiug-1)ell  rings  best! '" 

XCII. 

They  liave  caught  out  at  the  rein  which 
Sir  Guv  threw  loose,  in  vain; 
\Toll  slowly) 
For  the  horse,  iu  stark  despair,  with 
his  front  hoofs  jioised  in  air. 
On  the  last  verge  rears  amain. 

xciir. 

Now  he  hangs,  he' rocks  between,  and 

Ijis  nostrils  curdle  in; 

(Toll  slowly) 

Now  he  shivers  head  and  hoof,  and 

the  flakes  of  foam  fall  off, 

And  his  face  grows  fierce  and  thin; 

XCI  v. 
And  a  look  of  human  woe  from  liis 
staring  eyes  did  go; 
(Toll  sloivly) 
And  a  sharp  cry  uttered  he,  iu  a  fore- 
told agony 
Of  the  headlong  death  below; 


B 

Or 


*"^^^ 

'^%"' 


Rni'MK    OF   THK   DUCHESS   MAY. 


301 


xcv. 

And,  "Ring,  ring, thou  passing-bell," 
still  she  cried,  "i'  the  old  cha- 
pelle  !  " 

{ToJlslowbi) 
Then  back-toppling,  crashing  back,  a 
dead  weight  flnng  out  to  wrack, 
Horse  and  riders  overfell. 


I. 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the 
little  birds  sang  west, 
{Toll  sloicbi) 
And  I  read  this  ancient  Rhyme  in  the 
churchyard,  while  the  chime 
Slowly  tolled  for  one  at  rest. 

II. 

The  abeles  moved  in  the  sun,  and  the 

river  smooth  did  run, 

{Toll  slowly) 

And  the  ancient  Rhyme  rang  strange, 

with  its  x^assion  and  its  change. 

Here,  where  all  done  lay  undone. 

III. 
And  beneath  a  willow-tree  I  a  little 
graA'e  did  see, 

{Toll  slowly) 
Where  was    graved,   "  Heke    uxde- 

FILED,   LIETH    MAUD,   A    THKEE- 
YEAIi  CHILD, 

Eighteen  hundred,  fouty-thkee. 

IV. 

Then,  O  spirits,  did  I  say,  ye  who  rode 
so  fast  that  day, 

{Tollslowhj) 
Did  star-wheels  and  angel-wings,  with 
their  holy  winnowiugs, 
Keep  beside  you  all  the  way  ? 

v. 

Though  in  passion  ye  would  dash  witli 
a  blind  and  heavy  crash, 
{ToUslowhj) 
I'p  against  the  thick-bossed  shield  of 
God's  judgment  in  the  field,  — 
Though  your  heart  and  brain  were 
rash, — 


Now  your  will  is  all  unwilled,  now 

your  pulses  are  all  stilled, 

{Tollslowhj) 

Now  ye  lie  as  meek  and  mild  (where- 

so  laid)  as  Maud,  the  child 

"Whose  small  grave  was  lately  filled. 


VII. 

Beating  heart  and  burning  brow,  ye 
are  very  i>atient  now, 
{Toll  slowly) 
And  the  children  might  be  bold  to 
pluck  the  kingcups  from  your 
mould. 
Ere  a  month  had  let  them  grow. 

VIII. 

And  you  let  the  goldfinch  sing,  in  the 
alder  near  in  spring,  — 
{Toll  slowly) 
Let  her  build  her  nest,  and  sit  all  the 
three  weeks  out  on  it. 
Murmuring  not  at  any  thing. 

IX. 

In  your  patience  ye  are  strong;  cold 
and  heat  ye  take  not  wrong; 
{Toll  sloivly) 
When  the  trumpet  of  the  angel  blows 
eternity's  evangel. 
Time  will  seem  to  you  not  long. 


X. 

Oh,  the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the 
little  birds  sang  west, 
( Toll  slotvly) 
And  I  said  in  under-breath,  "  All  our 
life  is  mixed  with  death. 
And  who  knoweth  which  is  best  ?  " 


XI. 


Ol 


the  little  birds  sang  east,  and  the    ' 
little  birds  sang  west, 
{Toll  slotvly) 
And  I  smiled  to  think  God's  greatness    I 
flowed  around  our  incomplete-  / 
ness,  —  / 


Round  our  restlessness,  his  rest. 


! 


THE  ROMANCE  OF  THE  SWAN'S  NEST. 


"  So  tlic  dreams  depart, 
So  the  fadiiiiT  pliaiitoms  flee, 
And  the  sharp  reality 
Now  must  aet  its  part." 

Wkstwoou's  Beads  from  a  Rosary. 


Little  Ellie  sits  alone 

'Mid  the  beeches  of  a  meadow, 
By  a  stream-side  on  the  grass, 
And  the  trees  are  showering  down 
Doubles  of  their  leaves  in  shadow. 
On  her  shining  hair  and  face. 


11. 

.She  has  thrown  her  bonnet  by, 
And  her  feet  she  has  been  dipping 
In  the  shallow  water's  flow ; 
Now  she  holds  them  nakedly 
In  her  hands,  all  sleek  and  dripping, 
While  she  rocketh  to  and  fro. 


III. 

Little  Ellie  sits  alone. 
And  the  smile  she  softly  uses 
Fills  the  silence  like  a  speech. 
While  she  thinks  what  shall  be  done. 
And  the  sweetest  pleasure  chooses 
For  her  future  within  reach. 


IV. 

Little  Ellie  in  her  smile 
Chooses,  "  I  will  have  a  lover, 
Riding  on  a  steed  of  steeds : 
He  shall  love  me  without  guile, 
And  to  him  I  will  discover 
The  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 


"  And  the  steed  shall  be  red-roan, 
And  the  lover  sliall  be  noble, 
With  an  eye  that  takes  the  breath. 
And  the  lute  he  plays  upon 
Shall  strike  ladies  into  trouble, 
As  his  sword  strikes  men  to  death. 
o02 


VI. 

"  And  the  steed  it  shall  be  shod 
All  in  silver,  housed  in  azure; 
And  the  the  mane  shall  swim  the 
wind ; 
And  the  hoofs  along  the  sod 
Shall  flash  onward,  and  keep  meas- 
ure, 
Till  the  shepherds  look  behind. 

VII. 

"  But  my  lover  will  not  prize 
All  the  glory  that  he  rides  in, 
When  he  gazes  in  my  face. 
He  will  say,  '  O  Love,  thine  eyes 
Build  the  shrine  my  soul  abides  in. 
And  I  kneel  here  for  thj-  gracel' 

VIII. 

"  Then,  ay,  then  he  shall  kneel  low, 
With  the  red-roan  steed  anear  him. 
Which  shall  seem  to  understand, 
Till  I  answer,  '  Rise  and  go  ! 

For  the  world  must  love  and  feai 
him 
Whom  I  gift  with  heart  and  hand, 

IX. 

"  Then  he  will  arise  so  pale, 
I  shall  feel  my  own  lips  tremble 
With  a  yes  I  must  not  say : 
Nathless  maiden-brave,  'Farewell,' 
I  will  utter,  and  dissemble  — 
'  Light  to-morrow  with  to-day  ! ' 

X. 

"  Then  he'll  I'ide  among  the  hills 

To  the  wide  world  past  the  river, 

There  to  put  away  all  wrong. 

To  make  straight  distorted  wills, 

And  to  empty  the  broad  quiver 

Which  the  wicked  bear  along. 


BEWrnA   IN   THE  LANE. 


303 


XI. 

"  Three  times  shall  a  young  foot-page 
Swim   the   stream,    and   climb    the 
mountain, 
And  kneel  down  heside  my  feet: 
'  Lo!  my  master  sends  this  gage. 
Lady,  for  thy  pity's  counting. 
What  wilt  thou  exchange  for  it?  ' 

XII. 

"  And  the  first  time  I  will  send 
A  white  rosebud  for  a  guerdon: 
And  the  second  time,  a  glove; 
But  the  third  time  I  may  bend 
From    my    pride,    and    answer,  — 
'  Pardon, 
If  he  comes  to  take  my  love.' 

XIII. 

"  Then  the  .young  foot-page  will  run; 
Then  my  lover  will  ride  faster, 
Till  he  kneeleth  at  my  knee: 
'  I  am  a  duke's  eldest  son, 
Thousand  serfs  do  call  me  master. 
But,  O  Love,  I  love  but  tlwe  ! ' 

XIV. 

"  He  will  kiss  me  on  the  mouth 
Then,  and  lead  me  as  a  lover 
Through  the  crowds  that  praise 
his  deeds. 


And,  when  soul-tied  by  one  troth, 
ITuto  him  t  will  discover 
That    swan's    nest    among     the 
reeds." 

XV. 

Little  EUie,  with  her  smile 
Not  yet  ended,  rose  up  gayly, 

Tied  the  bonnet,  donned  the  shoe, 
And  went  liomeward,  round  a  mile, 
Just  to  see,  as  she  did  daily, 

Wliat  more  eggs  were  with   the 
two. 


XVI. 

Pushing  through  the  elm-tree  copse, 
Winding    \\\)     the    stream,     light- 
hearted, 
Where  the  osier  pathway  leads. 
Past  the  boughs  she  stoops,  and  stops. 
Lo,  the  wild  swan  had  deserted, 
And  a  rat  had  gnawed  the  reeds  ! 


XVII. 

Ellie  went  home  sad  and  slow. 
If  she  found  the  lover  ever. 
With  his  red-roan  steed  of  steeds, 
Sooth  I  know  not;  but  I  know 
She  could  never  show  him  —  never. 
That  swan's  nest  among  the  reeds. 


BERTHA  m  THE  LANE. 


Pri  the  broidery-frame  away, 
For  my  sewing  is  all  done: 

The  last  thread  is  used  to-day, 
And  I  need  not  join  it  on. 

Though  the  clock  stands  at  the  noon, 

I  am  weary.     I  have  sewn. 

Sweet,  for  thee,  a  wedding-gown. 

II. 

Sister,  help  me  to  the  bed, 

And  stand  near  me,  dearest  sweet. 
Do  not  shrink,  nor  be  afraid, 

Blushing  with  a  sudden  heat! 


No  one  standeth  in  the  street  ? 
By  God's  love  I  go  to  meet, 
Love  I  thee  with  love  complete. 

III. 

Lean  thy  face  down;  drop  it  in 

These     two     hands,    that     I     mav 
hold 
'Twixt   their  palms   thy   cheek    and 
chin. 
Stroking  back  the  curls  of  gold: 
'Tis  a  fair,  fair  face,  in  sooth  — 
Larger  eyes  and  redder  mouth 
Than  mine  were  in  my  tirst  youth. 


i 


304 


BERTHA   IN    THE  LANE. 


IV. 

Thou  art  younger  by  seven  years  — 
Ah  !  so  bashful  at  my  gaze. 

That  the  lashes,  hung  with  tears, 
Grow  too  heavy  to  upraise  ? 

I  would  wound  thee  by  no  touch 

Which  thy  shjniess  feels  as  such. 

Dost  thou  mind  me.  dear,  so  much  ? 


V. 

Have  I  not  been  nigh  a^nother 

To  thy  sweetness  ?  —  tell  me,  dear; 
Have  we  not  loved  one  another 

Tenderly,  from  year  to  year, 
Since  our  dying  mother  mild 
Said,  with  accents  undefiled, 
"  Child,  be  mother  to  this  child  "  ? 


VI. 

Mother,  mother,  up  in  heaven. 

Stand  up  on  the  jasper  sea, 
And  be  witness  I  have  given 

All  the  gifts  required  of  me,  — 
Hope    that    blessed    me,    bliss    that 

crowned. 
Love  that  left  me  with  a  wound, 
Life  itself  that  turueth  round. 


VII. 

Mother,  mother,  thou  art  kind, 

Thou  art  standing  in  the  room. 
In  a  molten  glory  shrined. 

That  rays  off  into  the  gloom  ; 
But  thy  smile  is  bright  and  bleak 
Like  cold  waves:  I  cannot  s^jeak, 
I  sob  in  it,  aud  grow  weak. 


VIII. 

Ghostly  mother,  keep  aloof 
One  iiour  longer  from  my  soul ; 

For  I  still  am  thinking  of 
Earth's  warm-beating  joy  and  dole  ! 

On  my  finger  is  a  ring 

AV'hicii  I  still  see  glittering 

When  the  night  hides  every  thing. 


IX. 

Little  sister,  thou  art  pale  I 

Ah,  I  have  a  wandering  brain,  — 
But  I  lose  that  fever-bale, 

And  my  thoughts  grow  calm  again. 
Lean  down  closer,  closer  still: 
I  have  words  thine  ear  to  fill, 
.\nd  would  kiss  thee  at  mv  will. 


Dear,  I  heard  thee  in  the  spring,  — 
Thee    and    Robert,  —  through    the 
trees, — 

When  we  all  went  gathering 
Boughs  of  May-bloom  for  the  bees. 

Do  not  start  so  !    think  instead 

How  the  sunshine  overhead 

Seemed  to  trickle  through  the  shade. 


XI. 

What  a  day  it  was  that  day  ! 

Hills  and  vales  did  openly 
Seem  to  heave,  and  throb  away 

At  the  sight  of  the  great  sky ; 
And  the  silence,  as  it  stood 
In  the  glory's  golden  flood, 
Audibly  did  bud,  aud  bud. 

XII. 

Through     the     winding     hedgerows 
green 
How  we  wandered,  I  and  you, 
With  the  bowery  tops  shut  in, 
And    the    gates    that    showed    the 
view  1 
How  we  talked  there:  thrushes  soft 
Sang  our  praises  out,  or  oft 
Bleatings  took  them  from  the  croft: 

XIII. 

Till  the  pleasure,  grown  too  strong, 

Left  me  muter  evermore, 
And,  the  winding  road  being  long, 

I  walked  out  of  sight,  before. 
And  so,  wrapt  in  musings  fond. 
Issued  (past  the  wayside  pond) 
On  the  meadow-lands  beyond. 

XIV. 

I  sate  down  beneath  the  beech 
Which  leans  over  to  the  lane. 
And  the  far  sound  of  your  sj)eech 

Did  not  i^romise  any  pain ; 
Aud  I  blessed  you  full  and  free. 
With  a  smile  stooped  tenderly 
O'er  the  May-flowers  on  my  knee. 

XV. 

But  the  sound  grew  into  word 
As  the  speakers  drew  more  near  — 

Sweet,  forgive  me  that  I  heard 
What  j'ou  wished  me  not  to  hear. 

Do  not  weep  so,  do  not  shake; 

Oh,  I  heard  thee,  Bertha,  make 

Good  true  answers  for  my  sake. 


BERTHA   IN   THE  LANE. 


805 


XVI. 

Yes,  and  he  too  !  let  liiiii  stand 
In     thy    tlioughts    untouched     by 
blame. 

Could  he  help  it,  if  my  hand 
He  had  claimed  with  hasty  claim  ? 

That  was  wrong,  perhaps;  but  then 

Such  things  be  —  and  will  again. 

Women  cannot  judge  for  men. 

XVII. 

Had  he  seen  thee  when  he  swore 
He  would  love  but  me  alone  ? 

Thou  wast  absent,  sent  before 
To  our  kin  in  Sidmoutli  town. 

When  he  saw  thee,  who  art  best 

Past  compare,  and  loveliest, 

He  but  judged  thee  as  the  rest. 

XVIII. 

Could    we    blame    him    witli    grave 
words. 

Thou  and  I,  dear,  if  we  might  ? 
Thy  brown  eyes  have  looks  like  birds 

Flying  straightway  to  the  light: 
Mine  are  older.    Hush  !    Look  out  — 
Up  the  street !     Is  none  without  ? 
How  the  poplar  swings  about ! 

XIX. 

And  that  hour,  beneath  the  beech, 
When  I  listened  in  a  dream. 

And  he  said  in  his  deep  speech 
That  he  owed  me  all  esteem,  — 

Each  word  swam  in  on  my  brain 

With  a  dim,  dilating  pain. 

Till  it  burst  with  that  last  strain. 


XX. 

I  fell  flooded  with  a  dark. 

In  the  silence  of  a  swoon. 
When  I  rose,  still  cold  and  stark. 

There  was  ■iMglit;  I  saw  the  moon : 
And  the  stars  tach  in  its  jilace, 
And  the  May-blooms  on  the  grass, 
Seemed  to  wonder  what  I  was. 


XXI. 

And  I  walked  as  if  apart 

From  myself,  when  I  could  stand; 
And  I  pitied  my  own  heart, 

As  if  I  held  it  in  my  hand. 
Somewhat  coldly,  with  a  sense 
Of  fulfilled  benevolence, 
And  a  "  poor  thing  "  negligence. 


XXII. 

And  I  answered  coldly,  too. 

When  you  met  me  at  the  door; 
And  I  only  heard  the  dew 

Dripping  from  me  to  the  floor; 
And  the  flowers  I  bade  you  see 
Were  too  withered  for  the  bee, 
As  mv  life  lienceforth  for  me. 


XXIII. 

Do  not  weep  so,  dear  —  heart-warm! 

All  was  best  as  it  befell. 
If  I  say  he  did  me  harm, 

I  speak  wild  —  I  am  not  well. 
All  his  words  were  kind  and  good  — 
He  esteemed  me.     Only,  blood 
Runs  so  faint  in  womanhood  ! 


XX  tv. 

Then  I  always  was  too  grave. 

Liked  the  saddest  ballad  sung, - 
With  that  look,  besides,  we  have 

In  our  faces,  who  die  young. 
I  had  died,  dear,  all  tlie  same: 
Life's  long,  joyous,  jostling  game 
Is  too  loud  for  my  meek  shame. 


XXV. 

We  are  so  unlike  each  other. 
Thou  and  I,  that  none  could  gue.ss 

We  were  children  of  one  mother, 
But  for  mutual  tenderness. 

Thou  art  rose-liued  from  the  cold, 

And  meant  verily  to  hold 

Life's  pure  pleasures  manifold. 


XXVI. 

I  am  pale  as  crocus  grows 

Close  beside  a  rose-tree's  root: 
Whoso'er  would  reach  the  rose 
Treads  the  crocus  under  foot. 
/,  like  May-bloom  on  thorn-tree, 
Thou,  like  merry  summer-bee,  — 
Fit  that  I  be  plucked  for  thee  ! 


XXVII. 

Yet  who  plucks  me  ?   No  one  mourns, 

I  have  lived  my  season  out. 
And  now  die  of  my  own  thorns 

Which  I  could  not  live  without. 
Sweet,  be  merry  !     How  the  light 
Comes  and  goes  !     If  it  be  night, 
Keep  the  candles  in  my  siglit. 


306 


LADY    GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP. 


XXVIII. 

Are  there  footsteps  at  the  door  ? 

Look  out  quickly.    Yea,  or  nay  ? 
Some  one  might  be  waiting  for 

Some  last  word  that  I  might  say. 
Nay  ?    So  best !  so  angels  would 
Stand  off  clear  from  deathly  road, 
Not  to  cross  the  sight  of  God. 

XXIX. 

Colder  grow  my  hands  and  feet. 

When  I  wear  the  shroud  I  made, 
Let  the  folds  lie  straight  and  neat, 

And  the  rosemary  be  spread, 
That,  if  any  friend  should  come, 
(To  see  thee,  sweet),  all  the  room 
May  be  lifted  out  of  gloom. 

XXX. 

And,  dear  Bertha,  let  me  keep 

On  my  hand  this  little  ring, 
Which  at  nights,  when  others  sleep, 

I  can  still  see  glittering. 
Let  me  wear  it  out  of  sight. 
In  the  grave,  where  it  will  light 
All  the  dark  up,  day  and  night. 

XXXI. 

On  that  grave  drop  not  a  tear  ! 

Else,  though  fathom-deep  the  place, 
Through  the  woollen  shroud  I  wear 

I  shall  feel  it  on  nij-  face. 


Rather  smile  there,  blessed  one, 
Thinking  of  me  in  the  sun. 
Or  forget  me,  —  smiling  on  ! 


XXXII. 

Art  thou  near  me  ?    Nearer  !  so  — 

Kiss  me  close  upon  the  eyes, 
That  the  earthly  light  maj^  go 

Sweetly,  as  it  used  to  rise 
When  I  watched  the  morning-gray 
Strike,  betwixt  the  hills,  the  way 
He  was  sure  to  come  that  day. 

XXXIII. 

So  —  no  more  vain  words  be  said  !' 

The  hosannas  nearer  roll. 
Mother,  smile  now  on  thy  dead, 
I  am  death-strong  in  my  soul. 
Mystic  Dove  alit  on  cross. 
Guide  the  poor  bird  of  the  snows 
Through  the  snow-wind  above  loss  ' 


XXXIV. 

Jesus,  Victim,  comprehending 
Love's  divine  self-abnegation. 

Cleanse  my  love  in  its  self-spending. 
And  absorb  the  jioor  libation  ! 

Wind  my  thread  of  life  up  higher. 

Up,  through  angels'  hands  of  fire  ! 

I  aspire  while  I  expire. 


LADI  GERALDINE'S  COURTSHIP. 


A   ROMANCE   OF   THE   AGE. 


A  poet  voriten  to  his  friend.  Place.  —  A 
room  in  Wycombe  Hall,  Time.  —  Late 
in  tlie  evening. 

I. 
Deab  my  friend  and  fellow-student,  I 

would  lean  my  spirit  o'er  you  ! 
Down    the    purple  of    this    chamber 

tears    should    scarcely    run    at 

will. 


I    am    humbled   who  was    humble. 

Friend,  I  bow  my  head  before 

you: 
You  should  lead  me  to  my  peasants; 

but  their  faces  are  too  still. 

II. 

There's  a  lady,  an  earl's  daughter, — 

she  is  proud  and  she  is  noble, 
And  she  treads  the  crimson  carpet, 


LADY    GERALDINE'S    COURTSHIP. 


307 


and  she  breathes  the  perfumed 

air, 
And  a  kingly  blood  sends  glances  up, 

her  princely  eye  to  trouble, 
And    the     shadow    of    a    monarch's 

crown  is  softened  in  her  hair. 


in. 


She 


She 


has  halls  amonc;  the  woodlands, 
she  has  castles  by  the  breakers, 
has  farms  and  she  has  manors, 
she  can  threaten  and  command, 
And  the  jialpitating  engines  snort  in 

steam  across  her  acres, 
As  they  mark  upon  the  blasted  heaven 
the  measure  of  the  land. 


IV. 

There  are  none  of  England's  daugh- 
ters who  can  show  a  jn'ouder 
presence ; 

Upon  princely  suitors  praying,  she 
has  looked  in  her  disdain. 

She  was  sprung  of  English  nobles,  I 
was  born  of  English  peasants: 

"What  was  I  that  I  shoulil  love  her, 
save  for  competence  to  pain  ! 


I  was  only  a  poor    ]ioet,    made  for 

singing  at  her  casement. 
As  the  finches  or  the  thrushes,  while 

she  thought  of  other  things. 
Oh,  she  walked  so  high  above  me,  she 

appeared  to  my  abasement. 
In  her  lovely  silken  murmur,  like  an 

angel  clad  in  wings  ! 


VI. 

bow  before  her 
sweeps     their 


as  her 
door- 


Many  vassals 

carriage 

ways; 
She  has  blest  their  little  children,  as  a 

priest  or  queen  were  she: 
Far  too  tender,  or  too  cruel  far,  her 

smile  upon  the  i^oor  was. 
For  I  thought  it  was  the  same  smile 

which  she  used  to  smile  on  me. 


VII. 

She  has  voters  in  the  commons,  she 
has  lovers  in  the  palace, 

And  of  all  the  fair  court-ladies,  few 
have  jewels  half  as  fine ; 


Oft  the  prince  has  named  her  beauty 
'twixt  the  red  wine  and  the 
chalice: 

Oh,  and  what  was  /to  love  her?  my 
beloved,  my  Geraldine  ! 

VIII. 

Yet  I  could  not  choose  but  love  her: 

I  was  born  to  poet-uses, — 
To  love  all  things  set  above  me,  all  of 

good  and  all  of  fair. 
Nymphs  of  mountain,  not  of  valley, 

we  are  wont  to  call  the  Muses"; 
And,  in  nympholeptic  climbing,  poets 

pass  from  mount  to  star. 

IX. 

And  because  I  was  a  poet,  and  lie- 
cause  the  public  praised  me. 

With  a  critical  deduction  for  the  mod- 
ern writer's  fault, 

I  could  sit  at  rich  men's  tables, 
though  the  courtesies  that  raised 
me 

Still  suggested  clear  between  us  the 
pale  spectrum  of  the  salt. 


And  they  praised  me  in  her  presence: 

"  Will    your  book  appear   this 

summer '? " 
Then,  returning  to  each  other —  "  Yes, 

our  plans  are  for  the  moors;  " 
Then,  with  whisper  dropped  behind 

me  — ' '  There  he  is  !   the  latest 

comer. 
Oh,  she  only  likes  his  verses  !  what  is 

over,  she  endures. 

XI. 

"  Quite  low-born,  self-educated!  some- 
what gifted,  though,  by  nature. 

And  we  make  a  point  of  asking  him, 
—  of  being  very  kind. 

You  may  speak ,  he  does  not  hear  you ; 
and,  besides,  he  writes  no  satire: 

All  these  serjients  kept  by  charmers 
leave  the  natural  sting  behind." 

XII. 

I  grew  scornfuller,  grew  colder,  as  T 
stood  up  there  among  them. 

Till,  as  frost  intense  will  burn  you,  the 
cold  scorning  scorched  mj-brow ; 

When  a  sudden  silver  speaking"  grave- 
ly cadenced,  over-rung  them. 

And  a  sudden  silken  stirring  touched 
my  inner  nature  through. 


I 


308 


LADY    GERALDINE'S    COURTSHir. 


XIII. 

I  looked    upward    and    beheld    lier: 

with  a  calm  and  regnant  spirit, 
Slowly  round  she  swept  her  eyelids, 

and  said  clear  before  them  all, 
"  Have  you  such  superfluous  honor, 

sir,  that,  able  to  confer  it, 
You  will  come  down,  Mister  Bertram, 

as  my  guest  to  Wycombe  Hall?  " 


XIV. 

Here  she  paused:  she  had  been  paler 
at  the  first  word  of  her  speak- 
ing. 

But,  because  a  silence  followed  it, 
blushed  somewhat,  as  for  shame, 

Then,  as  scorning  her  own  feeling,  re- 
sumed calmly,  "  I  am  seeking 

More  distinction  than  these  gentle- 
men think  worthy  of  ray  claim. 


XV. 


not 


"  Ne'ertheless,  you  see,  I  seek  it 

because  I  am  a  woman," 
(Here  her  smile  sprang  like  a  fountain, 

and  so,  overflowed  her  mouth), 
"  But  because  my  woods  in   Sussex 

have    some    purjile    shades    at 

gloaming 
Which  are  worthy  of  a  king  in  state, 

or  poet  in  his  youth. 


XVI. 

"  I  invite  you.  Mister  Bertram,  to  no 

scene  for  worldly  speeches,  — 
Sir,  I  scarce  should  dare,  —  but  only 

where  God  asked  the  thrushes 

first; 
And  if  yoM  will  sing  beside  them,  in 

the  covert  of  my  beeches, 
I  will  thank  you  for  the  woodlands, 

for  the  human  world  at  worst." 


XVII. 

Then  she  smiled  around  right  childly, 

then    she    gazed    around  right 

queenly, 
And  I  bowed — I  could  not  answer; 

alternated  liglit  and  gloom, 
While,  as  one  who  quells  the   lions, 

with  a  steady  eye,  serenely. 
She,    with     level,    fronting    eyelids, 

passed    out    stately    from    the 

room. 


XVIII. 

Oh  the  blessed  woods   of  Sussex  !   I 

can  hear  them  still  around  me, 
With  their  leafy  tide  of  greenery  still 

rippling  up  the  wind. 
Oh  the  cursed  woods  of  Sussex!  where 

the  hunter's  arrow  found  me 
When  a  fair  face  and  a  tender  voice 

had  made  me  mad  and  ])lind! 


XIX. 

In    that    ancient    hall    of    Wycombe 

thronged  the  numerous  guests 

invited, 
And  the  lovely  London  ladies  trod 

the  floors  with  gliding  feet; 
And  their  voices,  low  with  fashion,  not 

with  feeling,  softly  freighted 
All  the  air  about  the  windows  witli 

elastic  laughters  sweet. 


XX. 


For 


at  eve  the  open  wintlows  flung 

their  light  out  on  the  terrace, 
Which  the  floating  orbs  of  curtains  did 

with  gradual  shadow  sweep, 
While  the  swans  upon  the  river,  fed 

at  morning  by  the  heiress, 
Trembled   downward    through    their 

snowy  wings  at  music  in  their 

sleep. 


XXI. 

And  there  evermore  was  music,  both 

of  instrument  and  singing, 
Till  the   flnclies  of    the    shrubberies 

grew  restless  in  the  dark; 
Bnt  the  cedars  stood  up   motionless, 

each  in  a  moonlight-ringing, 
And  the  deer,  half  in   the  glimmer, 

strewed  the  hollows  of  the  park. 


XXII. 

And    though    sometimes    she  would 

bind  me  with  her  silver-corded 

speeches 
To  commix  my  words  and   laughter 

with  the  converse  and  the  jest. 
Oft  I  sat  apart,  and,  gazing  on  the 

river  through  the  i)eeclies. 
Heard,  as  pure  the  swans  swam  down 

it,  her  pure  Aoice  o'erfloat   the 

rest. 


LADY    G/:RALDINE\S    COURTS/IIP. 


]()[) 


XXIII. 

Ill  the  morning,  liorii    of   hiuitsinan, 

lioof  of  steed,  and  langh  of  rider, 
Spread  out  clieery  from  the  courtyard 

till  we  lost  them  in  the  hills; 
While  herself   and  otlicr  ladies,  and 

her  suitors  left  besiile  her, 
Went   a-\vaiidering  up   the    gardens, 

tjirough  the  laurels  and  abeles. 

XXIV. 

Thus,  her  loot  upon  the  new-mown 
grass,  bareheaded,  with  tlie 
flowing 

Of  the  virginal  white  vesture  gath- 
ered closely  to  her  throat. 

And  the  golden  ringlets  in  her  neck 
just  quickened  by  her  going, 

And  appearing  to  breathe  sun  for  air, 
and  doubting  if  to  float,  — 

XXV. 

"With  a  bunch  of  dewy  maple  which 

her  right  hand  held  above  her, 
And  which  trembled,  a  green  shadow, 

in  betwixt  her  and  the  skies, 
As  she  turned  her  face  in  going,  thus, 

she  drew  me  on  to  love  her. 
And  to  worship  the  diviueness  of  the 

smile  hid  in  her  eyes. 

XXVI. 

For  her  eyes  alone  smile  constantly; 
her  lips  have  serious  sweetness. 

And  her  front  is  calm;  the  dimple 
rarely  ripples  on  the  cheek; 

But  lier  deep  blue  eyes  smile  constant- 
ly, as  if  they  in  discreetness 

Kept  tiie  secret  of  a  happy  dream  she 
did  not  care  to  speak. 

xxvii. 

Thus  she  drew  ine,  the  first  morning, 
out  across  into  the  garden, 

Ami  I  walked  among  her  noble 
friends,  and  could  not  keep  be- 
hind. 

Spake  she  unto  all  and  unto  me,  "  Be- 
hold, I  am  the  warden 

Of  the  song-birds  in  these  lindens, 
which  are  cages  to  their  mind. 

xxvni. 

"  But  within  this  swarded  circle  into 
Avhich  the  lime-walk  brings  us, 

Whence  the  beeches,  rounded  greenly, 
stand  away  in  reverent  fear, 


I  will  let  no  music  enter,  saving  what 

the  fountain  sings  us, 
Which  the  lilies  round  the  basin  may 

seem  pure  enough  to  hear. 


xxix. 

"  The  live  air  that  waves  the  lilies 
waves  the  slender  jet  of  water. 

Like  a  holy  thought  sent  feebly  up 
from  soul  of  fasting  saint: 

Whereby  lies  a  marble  Silence  sleep- 
ing (Lough  the  sculptor  wrought 
her,) 

So  asleep  she  is  forgetting  to  say 
'  Hush! '  —  a  fancy  quaint. 


XXX. 

"Mark  how  heavy  white  her  eyelids! 
not  a  dream  between  them  lin- 
gers; 

And  the  left  hand's  index  droppeth 
from  the  lips  upon  the  cheek; 

While  the  right  hand,  with  the  sym- 
bol-rose held  slack  within  the 
fingers, 

Has  fallen  backward  in  the  basin, — 
yet  this  Silence  will  not  speak! 


XXXI. 

"  That  the  essential  meaning  growing 
may  exceed  the  special  symbol, 

Ls  the  thought  as  I  conceive  it:  it  ap- 
plies more  high  and  low. 

Our  true  noblemen  will  often  through 
right  nobleness  grow  humble. 

And  assert  an  inward  honor  by  deny- 
ing outward  show." 


XXXII. 

"  Nay,  your  Silence,"  said  I,  "  truly, 

holds      her      symbol-rose     but 

slackly ; 
Yet  she  holds  it,  or  would  scarcely  be 

a  Silence  to  our  ken: 
And  your  nobles  wear  their  ermine 

on  the  outside,  or  walk  blackly 
In  the  presence  of  the  social  law  as 

mere  ignoble  men. 


XXXIII. 

"  Let  the  poets  dream  such  dreaming! 

madam,  in  these  British  islands 
'Tis   the   substance  that  wanes  ever, 

'tis  the  symbol  that  exceeds. 


i 


LADY    GERALDLNE'S    COURTSHIP. 


Soon  we  shall  have  nought  but  sj'in- 
hol;  and,  for  statues  like  this 
Silence, 

Shall  accept  the  rose's  image  —  in  an- 
other case,  the  weed's.'" 

XXXIV. 

"Not  so  quickly,"  she  retorted:  "I 

confess,  where'er  you  go,  you 
Find   for   things,  names  —  shows   for 

actions,  and  pure  gold  for  honor 

clear: 
But,  when  all  is  run  to  symbol  in  the 

social,  I  will  throw  you 
The  world's   book   which   now  reads 

dryly,  and  sit  down  with  Silence 

here." 

XXXV. 

Half  in  playfulness  she  spoke,  I 
thought,  and  half  in  indigna- 
tion : 

Friends  who  li.stened,  laughed  her 
words  of¥,  while  her  lovers 
deemed  her  fair,  — 

A  fair  woman,  tinshed  with  feeling,  in 
her  nolile-lighted  station 

Near  the  statue's  white  reposing  and 
both  bathed  in  sunny  air  ! 

X.XXVI. 

"With  the  trees  round,  not  so  distant 
but  you  beard  their  vernal  mur- 
mur, 

And  beheld  in  light  and  shadow  the 
leaves  in  and  outward  move. 

And  the  little  fountain  leaping  toward 
the  sun-heart  to  be  warmer. 

Then  recoiling  in  a  tremble  from  the 
too  much  light  above. 

XXXVII. 

'Tis  a  picture  for  remembrance.    And 

thus,  morning  after  morning. 
Did  I  follow  as  she  drew  me  by  the 

spirit  to  her  feet. 
Why,  her  greyhound   followed  also  ! 

dogs  —  we  both   were  dogs  for 

scorning  — 
To  be  sent  back  when  she  pleased  it 

and  her  path   lay  through  the 

wheat. 

XXX  VI II. 

And  thus,  morning  after  morning, 
spite  of  vows,  and  si)ite  of  sor- 
row. 

Did  I  follow  at  her  drawing,  while  the 
week-days  passed  along, 


Just  to  feed  the  swans  this  noontide, 
or  to  see  the  fawns  to-morrow. 

Or  to  teach  the  hillside  echo  some 
sweet  Tuscan  in  a  song. 

XXXIX. 

Ay;   for  sometimes  on    the   hillside, 

while    we    sate    down     in    the 

gowans. 
With  the  forest  green  behind  us,  and 

its  shadow  cast  before. 
And  the    rirer    running  under,  and 

across  it,  from  the  rowans, 
A  brown  partridge  whirring  near  us 

till  we  felt  the  air  it  bore,  — 

XL. 

There,  obedient  to  her  praying,  did  I 

read  aloud  the  poem's 
Made  to  Tuscan  flutes,  or  instruments 

more  various  of  our  own; 
Read  the  pastoral  parts  of  Spenser,  or 

the  subtle  interflowings 
Found  in  Petrarch's  sonnets  —  here's 

the    book,    the    leaf    is    folded 

down  ! 

XLI. 

Or  at  times  a  modern  volume,  Words- 
worth's solemn-thoughted  idyl, 

Howitt's  ballad-verse,  or  Tennyson's 
enchanted  revery, 

Or  from  Browning  some  "  Pomegran- 
ate,'' which,  if  cut  deep  down 
the  middle, 

Shows  a  heart  within  blood-tinctured, 
of  a  veined  humanity. 


XLII. 


Or 


at  times    I    read  there  hoarsely 

some  new  poem  of  my  making: 
Poets  ever  fail  in  reading  their  own 

verses  to  their  worth; 
For  the  echo  in  you  breaks  upon  the 

words  which  you  are  speaking. 
And  the  chariot-wheels  jar  in  the  gate 

through  which  you  drive  them 

forth. 

XLIII. 

After,  when  we  were  grown  tired  of 

books,    the    silence    round    us 

flinging 
A  slow  arm  of  sweet  compression,  felt 

with  beatings  at  the  breast, 
She  would  break  out  on  a  sudden  in 

a  gush  of  woodland  singing, 
Like  a  child's  emotion  in  a  god,  —  a 

naiad  tired  of  rest. 


LADY   GERALDINE'S   COURTSIITP. 


311 


XLIV. 

Oil  to  see  or  liear  lier  singling  !  scarce 
I  know  which  is  diviuest, 

For  her  looks  sing  too  — she  modu- 
lates her  gestures  on  the  tune, 

And  her  mouth  stirs  with  the  song, 
like  song;  and,  when  the  notes 
are  finest, 

'Tis  the  eyes  that  shoot  out  voeal 
light,  and  seem  to  swell  them 
on. 

XLV. 

Then  we  talked  —  oh,  how  we  talked  ! 

her  voice,  so  cadenced   in   the 

talking, 
Made  another  singing  —  of  the  soul  ! 

a  music  without  bars: 
While  the  leafy  sounds  of  woodlands, 

humming  round  where  we  were 

walking. 
Brought  interposition  worthy-sweet, 

as  skies  about  the  stars. 


XLVI. 


And 


she  spake   such  good  thoughts 

natural,  as  if  she  always  thought 

them;  v 

She  had  sympathies  so  rapid,  open, 

free  as  bird  on  branch, 
Just    as    ready  to  fly  east    as  west, 

whichever  way  besought  them. 
In  the  birchen-wood  a  chirrup,  or  a 

cock-crow  in  the  grange. 

XLVII. 

In  lier  utmost  lightness  there  is  truth, 

and  often  she  speaks  lightly, 
Has  a  grace  in  being  gay  which  even 

mournful  souls  approve; 
For  the  root  of  some  grave  earnest 
thought  is  understruck  so  right- 
As  to  justify  the  foliage  and  the  wav- 
ing flowers  above. 

XLVIII. 

And  she  talked  on  —  we  talked,  rather! 
iipon  all  things,  —  substance, 
shadow. 

Of  the  sheep  that  browsed  the  grasses, 
of  the  reapers  in  the  corn. 

Of  the  little  children  from  the  schools, 
seen  winding  through  the  mead- 
ow. 

Of  the  poor  rich  world  beyond  them, 
still  kept  poorer  by  its  scorn. 


XLIX. 

So  of  men,  and  so,  of  letters  —  books 

are  men  of  higher  stature. 
And  the  only  men  that  speak  aloud 

for  future  times  to  hear; 
So,  of  mankind  in  the  abstract,  wliicli 

grows  slowly  into  nature, 
Yet  will  lift  tlie  cry  of  "  progress,"  as 

it  trod  from  sphere  to  sphere. 


And  her  custom  was  to  jiraise  me 
when  I  said,  "  The  age  culls  sim- 
ples. 

With  a  broad  clown's  back  turned 
broadly  to  the  glory  of  the  stars. 

AVe  are  gods  by  our  own  reck'ning, 
and  may  well  shut  up  the  tem- 
ples. 

And  wield  on,  amid  the  incense- 
steam,  the  thunder  of  our  cars. 

LI. 

"For  we  throw  out  acclamations  of 

self-thanking,  self-admiring. 
With,  at  every  mile  run  faster,  '  Oh 

the  wondrous,  wondrous  age  ! ' 
Little  thinking  if  we  work  our  souls 

as  nobly  as  our  iron. 
Or  if  angels  will  commend  us  at  the 

goal  of  pilgrimage. 

LII. 

"  Why,  what  is  this  patient  entrance 

into  Nature's  deep  resources 
But  the  child's  most  gradual  learning 

to  walk  upright  without  bane  ? 
When  we  drive  out  from  the  cloud  of 

steam  majestical  white  horses. 
Are  we  greater  than  the  first  men 

who  led  black  ones  by  the  mane? 

LIU. 

"  If  we  trod  the  deeps  of  ocean,  if  we 

struck  the  stars  in  rising. 
If    we  wrapped  the  globe  intensely 

with  one  hot  electric  breath, 
'Twere  but  power  within  our  tether, 

No  new  spirit-power  comprising. 
And  in  life  we  were  not  greater  men, 

nor  bolder  men  in  death." 

LI  v. 
She  was  patient  with  my  talking;  and 

I  loved  her,  loved  her  certes 
As  I  loved  all  heavenly  objects,  with 

uplifted  eyes  and  hands ; 


312 


LADY   GERALDLXE'S   COUIiTSHIP. 


As  I  loved  pure  inspirations,  loved 
the  graces,  loved  tlie  virtues, 

In  a  Love  content  with  writing  his 
own  name  on  desert  sands. 

LV. 

Or  at  least  I  thought  so,  purely; 
thought  no  idiot  hope  was  rais- 
ing 

Any  crown  to  crown  Love's  silence, 
silent  Love  that  sate  alone. 

Out,  alas  !  the  stag  is  like  me,  ^  he 
that  tries  to  go  on  grazing 

"With  the  great  deep  gun-wound  in 
his  neck,  then  reels  with  sud- 
den moan. 

LVI. 

It  was  thus  I  reeled.  I  told  you  that 
her  hand  had  many  suitors; 

But  she  smiles  them  down  imperially, 
as  Venus  did  the  waves, 

And  with  such  a  gracious  coldness, 
that  they  cannot  press  their  fu- 
tures 

On  the  present  of  her  courtesy,  which 
yieldingly  enslaves. 

Lvn. 

And  this  morning,  as  I  sat  alone  with- 
in the  inner  chamber 

With  the  great  saloon  beyond  it,  lost 
in  pleasant  thought  serene. 

For  I  had  been  reading  Camoens, 
that  poem,  you  remember, 

Which  his  lady's  eyes  are  praised  in 
as  the  sweetest  ever  seen. 

LVIII. 

And    the    book    lay   opeii;    and    my 

thought    flew    from    it,    taking 

from  it 
A  vibration  and  ini])ulsion  to  an  end 

beyond  its  own, 
As  the  branch  of  a  green  osier,  when 

a  child  would  overcome  it. 
Springs  up  freely  from  his  claspings, 

and  goes  swinging  in  the  sun. 

LIX. 

As    I    nuised   I   heard   a  muniHir:    it 

grew  deep  as  it  grew  longer, 
Speakers  using    earnest    language  — 

"  Lady  Geraldine,  you  icould !  " 
And   I   heai'd   a  voice   that    pleaded 

ever  on  in  accents  stronger. 
As  a  sense  of  reason  gave  it  power  to 

make  its  rhetoric  good. 


Well   I  knew  that  voice:   it  was  an 

earl's,  of  soul  that  matched  his 

station, — 
Soul   completed  into  lordship,  might 

and  right  read  on  his  brow; 
Very  finely  courteous:  far  too  proud 

to  doubt  his  domination 
Of  the  common  people,  he  atones  for 

grandeur  by  a  bow. 


LXI. 

High  straight  forehead,  nose  of  eagle, 

cold  blue  eyes  of  less  expression 
Than    resistance,   coldly  casting    off 

the  looks  of  other  men, 
As  steel,  arrows;  unelastic  lips,  which 

seem  to  taste  possession. 
And  be  cautious  lest  the  common  air 

should  injure  or  distrain. 


i..xir. 

For  tlie  rest,  accomplished,  upright, 

ay,  and  standing  by  his  order 
With  a  bearing  not  ungraceful;  fond 

of  art  and  letters  too; 
Just  a  good  man  made  a  prouil  man. 

— as  the  sandy  rocks  that  border 
A  wild  coast,  by  circumstance's,  in  a 

regnant  ebb  and  flow. 


LXIII. 

Thus,  I  knew  that  voice,  I  heard  it. 
and  I  could  not  helji  the  heark- 
ening: 

In  the  room  I  stooil  up  blindly,  and 
my  bvirning  heart  within 

Seemed  to  seethe  and  fuse  my  senses 
till  they  ran  on  all  sides  dark- 
ening. 

And  scorched,  weighed  like  melted 
metal  round  my  feet  that  stood 
therein. 

LXIV. 

And  that  voice,  I  heard  it  pleading, 
for  love's  sake,  for  wealth,  posi- 
tion. 

For  the  sake  of  liberal  uses,  and  great 
actions  to  be  done  — 

And  she  interrupted  gently,  "  Nay, 
my  lord,  the  old  tradition 

Of  your  Normans,  by  some  worthier 
hand  than  mine  is,  should  be 
won." 


LADY   GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP. 


313 


LXV. 

"Ah,    tliat    white    hand!"    he    said 

quickly;  and  in  his  he  either 

drew  it 
Or  attempted,  for  with  gravity  and 

instance  she  replied, 
"Nay,  indeed,  my  loi'd,  this  talk   is 

vain,  and  we  had  best  eschew  it, 
And  pass  on,  like  friends,  to  other 

points  less  easy  to  decide." 


LXVI. 


it  is 


What  he  said  again,  I  know  not: 

likely  that  his  trouble 
"Worked  his  pride  up  to  the  surface, 

for  she  answered  in  slow  scorn, 
"And  your   lordship  judges  rightly. 

Whom  I  marry,  shall  be  noble. 
Ay,  and  wealthy.    I  shall  never  blush 

to  think  how  he  was  born." 


LXVII. 

There  I  maddened.  Her  words  stung 
me.  Life  swept  through  me  in- 
to fever, 

And  my  soul  sprang  up  astonished,  — 
sprang  fuU-statured  in  an  hour. 

Know  you  what  it  is  when  anguish 
with  apocalyptic  never 

To  a  Pythian  height  dilates  you,  and 
desiiair  sublimes  to  power  ? 


LXVIII. 

From     my     brain     the     soul-wings 

budded,  waved  a  flame  about 

my  body. 
Whence  conventions  coiled  to  ashes. 

I  felt  self-drawn  out,  as  man. 
From  amalgamate  false  natures,  and 

I  saw  the  skies  grow  ruddy 
With  the  deepening  feet  of  angels, 

and  I  knew  what  spirits  can. 


LXIX. 

I  was  mad,  inspired,  say  either!  (an- 
guish worketh  insjiiration) 

Was  a  man  or  beast.  —  perhaps  so,  for 
the  tiger  roars  when  speared; 

And  I  walked  on  step  by  step  along 
the  level  of  my  passion  — 

Oh  ray  soul !  and  passed  the  doorway 
to  her  face,  and  never  feared. 


LXX. 

He  had  left  her,  ijeradventure,  when 

my  footstep  proved  my  coming," 
But  for  her  —  she  half  arose,  then  sate, 

grew  scarlet,  and  grew  pale. 
Oh,  she  trembled  !  'tis  so  always  with 

a  worldly  man  or  woman 
In  the  presence  of  true  spirits  :  what 

else  fan  they  do  but  quail  ? 


LXXI. 

Oh  !  she  fluttered  like  a  tame  bird  in 

among  its  forest  brothers 
Far  too  strong  for  it;  then  drooping, 

bowed  her  face  upon  her  hands; 
And    I    spake    out    wildly,   fiercely, 

brutal  truths  of  her  and  others: 
/,  she  planted  in  the  desert,  swathed 

her,  windlike,  with  my  sands. 


LXXII. 

I  plucked  up  her  social  fictions, 
bloody-rooted,  though  leaf-ver- 
dant, 

Trod  them  down  with  words  of  sham- 
ing, —  all  the  purple  and  the 
gold, 

All  the  "landed  stakes"  and  lord- 
ships, —  all  that  spirits  pure  and 
ardent 

Are  cast  out  of  love  and  honor  because 
chancing  not  to  hold. 


LXXIII. 

"  For  myself  I.  do  not  argue,"  said  I, 

"  though  I  love  you,  madam. 
But  for  better  souls  that  nearer  to  the 

height  of  yours  have  trod: 
And  this  age  shows,  to  my  thinking, 

still  more  infidels  to  Adam, 
Than,  directly  by  profession,  simple 

infidels  to  God. 


LXXIV. 

'  I  said, 


O  grave!  "  I 
mother's    heart    and 


"  Yet,  O  God! ' 

said,   "O 

bosom! 
With  whom  first  and  last  are  equal, 

saint  and  corpse  and  little  child. 
We   are   fools  to  your  deductions  in 

these  figments  of  heart  closing; 
We    are  traitors  to    your  causes    in 

these  sympatliies  defiled. 


314 


LADY   GERALD  INK'S    COURTSlIir 


tiXXV. 

"  Learn  more  reverence,  madam,  not 
for  rank  or  wealth,  that  needs  no 
learning,  — 

That  comes  quickly,  quick  as  sin  does, 
ay,  and  culminates  to  sin,  — 

But  for  Adam's  seed,  max!  Trust  me, 
'tis  a  clay  above  your  scorning, 

"With  God's  image  stamped  upon  it, 
and  God's  kindling  breath  with- 
in. 

LXXVI. 

"  "What  right  have  you,  madam,  gaz- 
ing in  your  palace  mirror  daily, 

Getting  so  bj'  heart  your  beauty  which 
all  others  must  adore, 

While  j'ou  draw  the  golden  ringlets 
down  your  fingers,  tovowgayly 

You  will  wed  no  man  that's  only  good 
to  God,  and  nothing  more  ? 


LXXVII. 

"  "Why,  what  right  have  you.  made 

fair    by    that    same    God,  the 

sweetest  woman 
Of  all  women  he  has  fashioned,  with 

your  lovely  spirit-face, 
"Which  would  seem  too  near  to  vanish, 

if  its  smile  were  not  so  human. 
And  your  voice  of   holy  sweetness, 

turning  common  words  to  grace, 


LXXVIII. 

"  What   right   can   you  have,   God's 

other  works  to  scorn,   despise, 

revile  them, 
In  the  gross,  as  mere  men,  broadly, 

not  as  noble  men,  forsooth  ; 
As  mere  pariahs  of  the  outer  world, 

forbidden  to  assoil  them 
In  the  hope  of  living,  dying,  near  that 

sweetness  of  vour  mouth  '.' 


LXXIX. 

"  Have  you  any  answer,  madam  ?  If 
my  spirit  were  less  earthly. 

If  its  instrument  were  gifted  with  a 
better  silver  string, 

I  would  kneel  down  where   I 


and   say,    'Behold   me! 
worthy 
Of  thy  loving,  for  I  love  thee, 
worth V  as  a  kins;.' 


stand, 
I  am 

I  am 


LXXX. 

'  As  it  is,  your  ermined  pride  I  swear, 

shall  feel  this  stain  upon  her. 
That  /,  poor,  weak,  tost  with  passion, 

scorned  by  me  and  you  again. 
Love  you,  madain,  dare  to  love  you, 

to  my  grief  and  your  di.shonor. 
To  my  endless  desolation,  and  j'i.>ur 

impotent  disdain." 


I.XXXI. 

More  mad  words  like  these,  —  mere 

madness !    friend,    I    need    not 

write  them  fuller. 
For  I  hear  my  hot  soul  dropping  on 

the  lines  in  showers  of  tears. 
Oh,  a  woman!  friend,  a  woman!  why, 

a  beast  had  scarce  been  duller 
Than    roar   bestial    loud    complaints 

agaiust    the     shining     of     the 

spheres. 

LXXXII. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  pause.  I 
stood  all  vibrating  with  thunder 

Which  my  soul  had  used.  The  silence 
drew  her  face  up  like  a  call. 

Could  you  guess  what  word  she  ut- 
tered ?  She  looked  up,  as  if  in 
wonder, 

With  tears  beaded  on  Iier  lashes,  and 
said,  "  Bertram!  "  it  was  all. 


LXXXIII. 

If  she  had  cursed  me,  —  and  she  might 
have,  —  or  if  even,  with  queenly 
bearing 

Which  at  need  is  used  by  women,  she 
had  risen  uj)  and  said. 

"  Sir,  you  are  my  guest,  and  therefore 
i  have  given  you  a  full  hearing: 

Now,  beseech  you.  choose  a  name  ex- 
acting somewhat  less,  instead," 


LXXXIV. 

I  had  borne  it :  but  that  "  Bertram  "  — 
why,  it  lies  there  on  tlie  paper, 

A  mere  word,  without  her  accent,  and 
you  cannot  judge  tlie  weight 

Of  the  calm  wliich  crushed  my  pas- 
sion. I  seemed  drowning  in  a 
vapor, 

And  lier  gentleness  destroyed  me, 
whom  her  scorn  made  desolate. 


<> 


LADY   GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP. 


O  1    " 


I 


LXXXV. 

So,  struck  backward  and  exhausted 
by  that  inward  flow  of  passion, 

"Which  had  rushed  on,  sparing  noth- 
ing, into  forms  of  abstract  truth. 

By  a  logic  agonizing  through  unseemly 
demonstration. 

And  by  youth's  own  anguish  turning 
grimly  gray  the  hairs  of  youth, 


LXXXVI. 

By  the  sense   accursed  and  instant, 

that,  if  even  I  spake  Avisely, 
I  spake  basely  —  using  truth, if  what  I 

spake  indeed  was  true. 
To  avenge  wrong  on  a  woman  —  her, 

who  sate  there  weighing  nicely 
A  poor  manhood's  worth,  found  guiltj^ 

of  such  deeds  as  I  could  do  !  — 


LXXXVII. 

By  such  wrong  and  woe  exhausted  — 

what  I  suffered  and  occasioned, 
As  a  wild  horse  through  a  city  runs 

with  lightning  in  his  eyes. 
And  then  dashing  at  a  church's  cold 

and  passive  wall,  impassioned, 
Strikes    the  death  into  his   burning 

brain,    and   blindly    drops    and 

dies  — 


LXXXVIII. 

So  I  fell,  struck  down   before   her  — 

do  you  blame  me,   friend,   for 

weakness  ? 
'Twas   my  strength   of  passion   slew 

me  —  fell     before     her    like    a 

stone; 
Fast  the  dreadful  world  rolled   from 

me    on    its    roaring  wheels    of 

blackness: 
When  the  light  came,  I  was  lying  in 

this  chamber,  and  alone. 


LXXXIX. 

Oh,  of  course  she  charged  her  lackeys 

to  bear  out  the  sickly  burden, 
And  to  cast  it  from  her  scornful  sight, 

but  not  beyond  the  gate; 
She  is  too  kind  to  be  cruel,  ami  too 

haughty  not  to  pardon 
Such  a  man  as  I:  'twere  sumething  to 

be  level  to  her  hate. 


xc. 

But  for  me  —  you  now  are  conscious 
why,  my  friend,  I  write  this  let- 
ter. 

How  my  life  is  read  all  backward,  and 
the  charm  of  life  undone. 

I  shall  leave  her  house  at  dawn, —  I 
would  to-night,  if  I  were  bet- 
ter,— 

And  I  charge  my  soul  to  hold  my  body 
strengthened  for  the  sun. 

xci. 

When  the  sun  has  dyed  the   oriel,  I 

depart,  with  no  last  gazes, 
No  weak  inoanings  (one  word   only, 

left  in  writing  for  lier  hands). 
Out  of  reach  of  all  derision,  and  some 

unavailing  praises, 
To  make  front  against  this  anguish  in 

the  far  and  foreign  lands. 

XCII. 

Blame  me  not.  I  would  not  squander 
life  in  grief  —  I  am  abstemious. 

I  but  nurse  iny  spirit's  falcon  that  its 
wing  may  soar  again. 

There's  no  room  for  tears  of  weak- 
ness in  the  blind  eyes  of  a  Plie- 
mius : 

Into  work  the  poet  kneads  them,  and 
he  does  not  die  till  tJtcn. 


CONCLUSION. 


Bek 


Still 


I'RAM    finished    the    last    pages, 
while  along  the  silence  ever, 
in  hot  and   heavy  splashes,  fell 
the  tears  on  every  leaf. 
Having  ended,  he  leans  backward  in 

his  chair,  with  lips  that  quiver 
From  the    deep    unspoken,   ay,   and 
deep     unwritten,    thoughts    of 
grief. 

II. 

Soli  !  How  still  the  lady  standeth  ! 
'Tis  a  dream.  —  a  dream  of  mer- 
cies ! 

'Twixt  the  ijurple  lattice-curtains  how 
she  .standeth  still  and  pale  ! 

'Tis  a  vision,  sure,  of  mercies  sent  to 
soften  his  self  curses, 

Sent  to  sweep  a  patient  quiet  o'er  the 
tossing  of  his  wail. 


L 


316 


LADY   GERALDINE'S   COURTSHIP. 


III. 

"Eyes,"  lie    said,   "now    throbbing 

throiigh  me,  are  ye  eyes  tliat 

did  undo  me  ?  — 
Shining  eyes,  like  antique  jewels  set 

in  Parian  statue-stone  ! 
Underneath  that  calm  white  forehead 

are  ye  ever  burning  torrid 
O'er  the  desolate  sand-desert  of  my 

heart  and  life  undone  ?  " 

IV. 

"With  a  murmurous  stir  uncertain,  in 

the  air  the  purple  curtain 
Swelleth  in  and  swelleth  out  around 

her  motionless  pale  brows, 
While  the  gliding  of  the  river  sends  a 

ripiiling  noise  forever 
Through  the  open  casement  whitened 

by  the  moonlight's  slant  repose. 


Said  he,   "Vision    of    a  lady,   stand 

there  silent,  stand  there  steady  ! 
Now  I  see  it  plainly,  plainly,  now  I 

cannot  hope  or  doubt  — 
There,  the  brows  of  mild  repression; 

there,  the  lips  of  silent  passion. 
Curved  like  an  archer's  bow  to  send 

the  bitter  arrows  out." 


VI. 


slow 


Ever,  evermore  the  while,  in  a 

silence  she  kept  smiling, 
And  approached  him  slowly,  slowlj-, 

in  a  gliding,  measured  pace. 
With  her  two  white  hands  extended, 

as  if,  praying  one  offended. 
And  a  look  of    suiiplication    gazing 

earnest  in  his  face. 

VII. 

Said  he,  "  Wake  me  by  no  gesture, 
sound  of  breath,  or  stir  of  ves- 
ture ! 

Let  the  blessed  apparition  melt  not 
yet  to  its  divine  ! 


No  approaching  —  hush,  no  breathing, 
or  my  heart  must  swoon  to 
death  in 

The  too  utter  life  thou  bringest,  O 
thou  dream  of  Geraldiue  !  " 

vin. 

Ever,  evermore  the  while,  in  a  slow 

silence  she  kept  smiling; 
But  the  tears  ran   over   lightly  from 

her  eyes,  and  tenderly:  — 
"  Dost  thou,  Bertram,  truly  love  me  ? 

Is  no  woman  far  above  me 
Found  more  worthy  of  thy  poet-heart 

than  such  a  one  as  I?  " 

IX. 

Said  he,  "I  would  dream  so  ever, 
like  the  flowing  of  that  river, 

Flowing  ever  in  a  shadow  greenly 
onward  to  the  sea  ! 

So,  thou  vision  of  all  sweetness, 
princely  to  a  full  complete- 
ness. 

Would  my  heart  and  life  flow  on- 
ward, deathward,  through  this 
dream  of  thee  !  " 

X. 

Ever,  evermore  the  while,  in  a  slow 

silence  she  kept  smiling. 
While  the  silver  tears  ran  faster  down 

the  blushing  of  her  cheeks  ; 
Then,  with  both  her  hands  infolding 

both  of  his,  she  softly  told  him, 
"Bertram,  if  I  say  I  love  thee,  .  .  . 

'tis  the  Aision  onlj'  speaks." 

XI. 

Softened,  quickened  to  adore  her,  on 

his  knee  he  fell  before  her; 
And  she  whispered  low  in   triumph, 

"  It  shall  be  as  I  have  sworn. 
Very  rich  he  is  in  virtues,  very  noble, 

—  noble,  certes; 
And   I   shall   not   blush   in   knowing 

that  men  call  him  lowly  born." 


"  And  appru;iLiu;d   him   slowly,  slowly,  in  a  gliding,  measured 
pace."  —  Page  516. 


THE  RUNAAV AY  SLAVE  AT  PILGPJMS 

POINT. 


I  STAJTD  on  the  mark  beside  the  shore 
Of  the  first  white  pilgrim's  bended 
knee, 
"Where  exile  turned  to  ancestor, 

And  God  was  thanked  for  liberty. 
I  have  run  through  the  night,  my  skin 

is  as  dark, 
I  bend  my  knee  down  on  this  mai'k: 
I  look  on  the  skv  and  the  sea. 


II. 

O  pilgrim-sonls,  I  speak  to  you  ! 

I  see  you  come  proud  and  slow 
From  tiie  land  of  the  spirits  pale  as 
dew, 
And  round  nw,  and  round  me,  ye  go. 
O  pilgrims  !  I  have  gasjied  and  run 
All  night  long  from  the  whips  of  one, 
Who,  in  your  names,  works  sin  and 
woe. 


III. 

And  thus  I  thought  that  I  would  come. 
And  kneel  here  where  ye  knelt  be- 
fore, 
And  feel  your  souls  around  me  hum 

In  undertone  to  the  ocean's  roar, 
And  lift  my  black  face,  my  black  hand, 
Here,  in   your  names,  to  curse  this 
land 
Ye  blessed  in  freedom's,  evermore. 


IV. 

I  am  black,  I  am  black; 

And  yet  God  made  me,  they  say: 
But,  if  he  did  so,  smiling  back 

He  must  have  cast  his  work  away 
Under  the  feet  of  his  white  creatures. 
With  a  look  of  scorn,  that  the  dusky 
features 

Might  be  trodden  again  to  clav. 


And  yet  he  has  made  dark  things 

To  be  glad  and  merry  as  light: 
There's  a  little   dark   bird  sits    and 
sings; 
There's  a  dark  '.stream  ripples  out 
of  sight; 
And  the  dark  frogs  chant  in  the  safe 

morass; 
And  the  sweetest  stars  are  made   to 
pas^ 
O'er  the  face  of  the  darkest  night. 


VI. 

But  ice  who  are  dark,  we  are  dark  ! 

Ah  God,  we  have  no  stars  ! 
About  our  souls  in  care  and  cark 

Our  blackness    shuts    like    prison- 
bars: 
The  poor  souls  crouch  so  far  behind 
That  never  a  comfort  can  they  find 

By  reaching  through  the  pris'on-bars. 


VII. 

Indeed,  we  live  beneath  the  sky. 
That  great  smooth    hand    of    God 
stretched  out 
On  all  his  children  fatherly, 
To  save  them  from  the  dread  and 
doubt 
Whicli  would  be,  if,   from  this  low 

place, 
All  opened  straight  up  to  his  face 
Into  the  grand  eternitv. 


VIII. 

And  still  God's  sunshine  and  his  frost. 
They  make  us  hot,  they  make   us 
cold. 
As  if  we  were  not  black  and  lost; 
And  the  beasts  and  birds  in  wood 
and  fold 

317 


318 


Tin:    RUXAWAY   SLAVE   AT  PILGRIM'S   POINT. 


Do  fear,  and  take  us  for  very  men: 
Could  the  weep-poor-will  or  the  cat 
of  the  glen 
Look  into  iny  eyes,  and  he  hold  ? 

IX. 

I  am  black,  I  am  black  ! 

But  once  I  laughed  in  girlish  glee, 
For  one  of  my  color  stood  in  the  track 
Where    the     drivers     drove,     and 
looked  at  me ; 
And  tender  and  full  was  the  look  he 

gave: 
Could  a  slave  look  so  at  another  slave  ? 
I  look  at  the  skv  and  the  sea. 


X. 

And  from  that  hour  our  spirits  grew 
As  free  as  if  unsold,  unbought: 

Oh,  strong  enough,  since  we  were  two, 
To  conquer  the  world,  we  thought ! 

The  drivers  drove  us  day  by  day : 

"We  did  not  mind,  we  went  one  way, 
And  no  better  a  freedom  sought. 


XX. 

In    the    sunny  ground    between  the 
canes, 
He  said,  "  I  love  you,"  as  he  passed; 
"When  the  shingle-roof  rang  sharp  with 
the  rains. 
I  heard  how  he  vowed  it  fast; 
"While  others  shook,  he  smiled  in  the 

hut, 
As  he  carved  me  a  bowl  of  the  cocoa- 
nut, 
Through  the  roar  of  the  hurricanes. 

xn. 

I  sang  his  name  instead  of  a  song, 
Over  and  over  I  sang  his  name; 

Upward   and  downward    I    drew    it 
along 
My  various  notes,  —  the  same,  the 


same  ! 


I  sang  it  low,  that  the  slave-girls  near 
Might  never  guess  from   aught  they 
could  hear 
It  was  only  a  name  —  a  name. 


XIII. 

I  look  on  the  sky  and  the  sea. 

"We  were  two  to  love,  and  two 
pray. 
Yes,  two,  O  God,  who  cried  to  thee 

Though  nothing  didst  thou  say! 


to 


Coldly  thou  sat'st  behind  the  sun; 
And  now  I  crj-,  who  am  but  one, 
Thou  wilt  not  speak  to-day. 


XIV. 

"V\"e  were  black,  we  were  black  ! 

AVe  had  no  claim  to  love  and  bliss; 
"What  marvel  if  each  went  to  wrack  ? 
They  wrung  my  cold  hands  out  of 
his. 
They      dragged      him  — where?      I 

crawled  to  touch 
His  blood's  mark  in  the  dust  .  .  .  not 
much, 
Ye  pilgrim-souls,  though   plain  as 
this! 

XV. 

"S\^rong,  followed  by  a  deeper  wrong  ! 

Mere  grief's  too  good  for  such  as  I: 
So  the  white  men  brought  the  shame 
ere  long 

To  sti-angle  the  sol)  of  my  agony. 
They  would  not  leave  me  for  my  dull 
"Wet  eyes!  —  it  was  too  merciful 

To  let  me  weep  pure  tears,  and  die. 

XVI. 

I  am  black,  I  am  black  ! 

I  wore  a  child  upon  my  breast. 
An  amulet  that  hung  too  slack, 

And  in  my  unrest  could  not  rest: 
Thus   we   went   moaning,   child   and 

mother. 
One  to  another,  one  to  another, 

Until  all  ended  for  the  best. 


XVII. 

For  hark!  I  will  tell  you  low,  low, 

I  am  black,  j'ou  see; 
And  the  l)abe  who  lay  on  my  bosom  so 
Was   far  too  white,  too  white   for 
me,  — 
As  white  as  the  ladies  who  scorned  to 

pray 
Beside  me  at  church  but  yesterday, 
Though    my  tears    had  washed    a 
jiiace  for  my  knee. 


XVIII. 

My  own,  own  child  !  I  could  not  bear 
To  look  in  his  face,  it  was  so  white: 

I  covered  him  up  with    a    kerchief 
there. 
I  covered  his  face  in  close  and  tight; 


i 


THE   RUXAWAY   SLAVE  AT  PILGRIM'S  POINT. 


319 


And  he  moaned  and  struggled,  as  well 
might  be, 

For  the  white  child  wanted  his  liber- 
ty- 
Ha,  ha  !  he  wanted  the  master-right. 

XIX . 

He  moaned,  and  beat  with  his  head 
and  feet,  — 
His  little  feet  that  never  grew ; 
He  struck  them  out,  as  it  was  meet. 
Against     my    heart    to    break    it 
through. 
I  might  have  sung  and   made    him 

mild ; 
But  I  dared   not  sing  to  the  white- 
faced  child 
The  only  song  I  knew. 

XX. 

I  pulled  the  kerchief  very  close: 

He  could  not  see  the  sun,  I  swear, 
More  then,  alive,  than  now  he  does 
From  between  the  roots  of  the  man- 
go ..  .  where  ? 
I  know  where.     Close  !    A  child  and 

mother 
Do  wrong  to  look  at  one  another, 
When  one  is  black,  and  one  is  fair. 

XXI. 

"Why,  in  that  single  glance  I  had 
Of  mv  child's  face  ...  I  tell  vou 
all, 
I  saw  a  look  that  made  me  mad  !  — 

The  master's  look,  that  used  to  fall 
On    my    soul    like    his    lash  .  .  .  or 

worse  ! 
And  so,  to  save  it  from  my  curse, 
I  twisted  it  round  in  my  shawl. 

XXII. 

And  he  moaned,  and  trembled  from 
foot  to  head, 
He  shivered  from  head  to  foot; 
Till,  after  a  time,  he  lay  instead 
Too  suddenly  still  and  mute. 
I  felt,  beside,  a  stiffening  cold ; 
I  dared  to  lift  up  just  a  fold. 
As  in  lifting  a.  leaf  of  the  mango- 
fruit. 

XXIII. 

But  »??/  fruit  .  .  .  ha,  ha  !  —  there  had 
been 

(I  laugh  to  think  on't  at  this  hour  !) 
Your  fine  white  angels  (who  have  seen 

Nearest  the  secret  of  God's  power) 


And  plucked  my  fruit  to  make  them 

wine. 
And  sucked  the  soul  of  that  child  of 

mine 
As    the    humming-bird    sucks    the 

soul  of  the  flower. 


XXIV. 

Ha,  ha,  the  trick  of  the  angels  white  ! 
They  freed  the  white  child's  spirit 
so. 
I  said  not  a  word,  but  day  and  night 

I  carried  the  body  to  and  fro. 
And  it  lay  on  my  heart  like  a  stone, 

as  ciiill. 
—  The  sun  may  shine  out  as  much  as 
he  will: 
I  am   cold,  though   it  happened  a 
month  ago. 


XXV. 

From  the  white  man's  house,  and  the 
blackmail's  hut, 
I  carried  the  little  botly  on ; 
The  forest's  arms  did  round  us  shut, 
And  silence  through  the  trees   did 
run : 
They  asked  no  question  as  I  went. 
They  stood  too  high  for  astonishment: 
They    could    see    God    sit    on    his 
throne. 


XXVI. 

My  little  body,  kerchiefed  fast, 

I  Itore  it  on  through  the  forest,  on; 
And  when  I  felt  it  was  tired  at  last, 

I  scooped  a  hole  beneath  the  moon: 

Through  the  forest-tops  the  angels  far. 

With  a  white  sharp  finger  from  every 

star. 

Did  point  and  mock  at  what  was 

done. 


.vxvii. 

Yet  when  it  was  all  done  aright, — 
Earth    'twixt    me    and    my    baby 
strewed,  — 
All  changed  to  black  earth,  —  noth- 
ing white, — 
A  dark  child  in  the  dark  !  —  ensued 
Some  comfort,  and  my  heart    grew 

young: 
I  sate  down  smiling  there,  and  sung 
The  song  I   learnt  in  my  maiden- 
hood. 


i 


320 


THE  RUNAWAY  SLAVE  AT  PILGRIM'S  I'OINT. 


XXVIII. 

Ami  tlius  we  two  were  reconciled,  — 
The  white  chiUl  and  black  mother, 
thus  ; 

For,  as  I  sang  it  soft  and  wild, 
The  same  song,  more  melodious, 

^ose  from  the  grave  whereon  I  sate  : 

It  was  tlie  dead  child  singing  that, 
To  join  the  souls  of  both  of  us. 

XXIX. 

vlook  on  tlie  sea  and  the  sky. 
Where    the    pilgrims'    ships    first 
anchored  lay 
The  free  sue  rideth  gloriously. 
But  the  pilgrim-ghosts    have    slid 
away 
Through  the  earliest  streaks  of  the 

morn : 
My  face  is  black;  l:ut  it  glares  with  a 
scorn 
Which  they  dare  not  meet  by  day. 


XXX. 

stead 


their    hunter 


Ha! — in    their 
sons  ! 
Ha,  ha  !  they  are  on  me  —  they  hunt 
in  a  ring !, 
Keep  off !  I  brave  you  all  at  once, 
I   throw  off   your   eyes  like  snakes 
that  sting  ! 
You  have  killed  the   black  eagle  at 

nest,  I  think: 
Did  you  ever  stand  still  in  your  tri- 
umph, and  shrink 
From   the   stroke   of   her  wounded 
wing? 

XXXI. 

(Man,  drop  that  stone  vou  dared  to 
lift  !) 
I  wish  you  who  stand  there  five 
abreast. 
Each  for  his  own  wife's  joy  and  gift, 

A  little  corpse  as  safely  at  rest 
As  mine  in  the  mangoes  !     Yes,  but 

she 
May  keep  live  babies  on  her  knee. 
And  sing  the  song  she  likes    the 
best. 

XXXII. 

I  am  not  mad:  I  am  black  ! 

I  see  you  staring  in  m.y  face  — 
I  know  you  staring,  shrinking  back, 

Ye  are  born    of    the  Washington- 
race, 


And  this  land  is  the  free  America, 
And  this  mark  on  my  wrist —  (I  prove 
what  I  say) 
Ropes  tied  me  up  here  to  the  flog- 
ging-place. 


You 


XXXIII. 

shrieked 


then  ■?    Not  a 


think  I 
sounil  ! 
I  hung,  as   a  gourd   hangs  in    the 
sun ; 
I  only  cursed  them  all  around 

As  softly  as  I  might  have  done 
My  very  own  child :  from  these  sands 
Up  to  the  mountains,  lift  your  hands, 
O  slaves,  and  end  what  I  begun  ! 


xxxiv. 

these 


must    answer 


Whips,   curses: 
those ! 

For  in  this  Union  you  have  set 
Two  kinds  of  men  in  adverse  rows, 
Each  loathing  each,  and  all  forget 
The  seven  wounds  in  Christ's  body 

fair. 
While  Hk  sees  gaping  everywhere 
Our  countless  wounds  that  pay  no 
debt. 


Our 


xxxv. 

are    different. 


You 


wounds 
white  men 
Are,  after  all,  not  gods  indeed, 
Nor  able  to  make  Christs  again 
Do  good  with  bleeding.     We  who 
bleed 
(Stand  off  !)  we  help  not  in  our  loss  ! 
We  are  too  heavy  for  our  cross. 
And  fall   and  crush  you   and  your 
seed. 

XXXVI. 

I  fall,  I  swoon!    I  look  at  the  sky. 
"The   clouds    are    breaking    on  my 
brain. 
I  am  floated  along,  as  if  I  should  die 

Of  liberty's  exquisite  pain. 
In  the  name  of  the  white  child  wait- 
ing for  me 
In  the  death-dark,  where  we  may  kiss 

and  agree. 
White  men,  I  leave  you  all  curse- free 
In  my  broken  heart's  disdain. 


THE  CRY  OF  THE  CHILDREN. 

"  4>ev,  <l>ev,  Tc  npoaSepKeaOe  fi'  OfXfiacrif,  TfKva'  "  —  MRDEA. 


Do  ye  hear  the  children  weeping,  O 
my  brothers, 
Ere  the  sorrow  comes  with  years? 
They  are  leaning  their  young  heads 
against  their  mothers, 
And  that  cannot  stop  tlieir  tears. 
The  young  lambs  are  bleating  in  the 
meadows ; 
The  young  birds  are  chirping  in  the 
nest; 
The  young  fawns  are  playing  with  the 
shadows; 
The    young    flowers    are    blowing 
— toward  the  west : 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my 
brothers  ! 
They  are  weeping  bitterly. 
They  are  weeping  in  the  playtime  of 
the  others, 
In  the  country  of  the  free. 

II. 

Do  you  question  tlie  young  children 
in  the  sorrow, 
Whj'  their  tears  are  falling  so  ? 
The  old  man  may  weep  for  his  to- 
morrow 
Which  is  lost  in  long  ago; 
The  old  tree  is  leatiess  in  the  forest; 

The  old  year  is  ending  in  the  frost; 
The  old  wound,   if    stricken,   is  the 
sorest; 
The  old  hope  is  hardest  to  be  lost: 
But  the  young,  young  children,  O  my 
brothers  ! 
Do  you  ask  them  why  they  stand 
Weeping  sore  before  the  bosoms  of 
their  mothers. 
In  our  hai>py  fatherland  ? 

III. 

They  look  up  with  their  pale    and 
sunken  faces; 
And  their  looks  are  sad  to  see. 
For  the  man's  hoary  anguish  draws 
and  presses 
Down  the  cheeks  of  infancy. 


<> 


"  Your  old  earth,"  tliey  say,  "  is  very 
dreary; 
Our  young    feet,"   they   say,   "  are 
very  weak ; 
Few  paces  have  we  taken  ,y  et  ar(i  weary ; 

Our  grave-rest  is  very  far  to  seek. 
Ask  the  aged  why  they  weep,  an<l  not 
tlie  children; 
For  the  outside  earth  is  cold. 
And  we  young  ones  stand  without  in 
our  bewildering. 
And  tlie  graves  are  for  the  oltl." 

IV. 

"True,"  say  the  children,   "it  may 
happen 
That  we  die  before  our  time: 
Little  Alice  died  last  year;  her  grave 
is  shapen 
Like  a  snowball  in  the  rime. 
We  looked  into  the  pit  prepared  to 
take  her: 
Was  no  room  for  any  work  in  the 
close  clay: 
From   the    sleep  wherein    she    lieth, 
none  will  wake  her, 
Crying,'Getup,little  Alice!  it  is  day.' 
If  you  listen  by  that  grave,  in  sun  and 
shower. 
With  your  ear  down,    little  Alice 
never  cries. 
Could  we  see  her  face,  be  sure  we 
should  not  know  her, 
For  the  smile  has  time  for  growing 
in  her  eyes; 
And  merry  go  lier  moments,  lulled 
and  stilled  in 
The  shroud  by  the  kirk-chime. 
It  is  good  when  it  happens,"  say  the 
children, 
"  That  we  die  before  our  time." 


Alas,  alas,  the  children  !    They  are 
seeking 
Death  in  life,  as  best  to  have. 
They  are  binding  up  their  hearts  away 
from  breaking, 
With  a  cerement  from  the  grave. 
321 


I 


322 


THE    CRY   OF   THE   CHILDREN. 


Go  out,  children,  from  the  mine  and 
from  the  city; 
Sing    out,    children,    as    the    little 
thrushes  do; 
Pluck  your  handfuls  of  the  meadow- 
cowslips  pretty; 
Laugh  aloud,  to  feel  your  fingers  let 
them  through. 
But  they  answer,  "  Are  your  cowslips 
of  the  meadows 
Like  our  weeds  anear  the  mine  ? 
Leave  us  quiet  in  the  dark  of  the  coal- 
shadows, 
From  your  pleasures  fair  and  fine. 


rr. 
"  For  oh  !  "  say  the  children,  "  we  are 
weary, 
And  we  cannot  run  or  leap: 
If  we  cared  for  any  meadows,  it  were 
merely 
To  drop  down  in  them,  and  sleep. 
Our  knees  tremble  sorely  in  the  stoop- 
ing; 
We  fall  upon  our  faces,  trying  to  go; 
And,  underneath  our  heavy  eyelids 
drooping, 
The  reddest  flower  would  look  as 
pale  as  snow; 
For  all  day  we  drag  our  burden  tiring. 
Through    the    coal-dark,    under- 
ground ; 
Or  all  day  we  drive  the  wheels  of  iron 
In  the  factories,  round  and  round. 


VII. 

"  For  all  day  the  wheels  are  droning, 
turning ; 
Their  wind  comes  in  our  faces. 
Till  our  hearts  turn,  our  heads  with 
pulses  burning. 
And  the  walls  turn  in  their  places. 
Turns  the   sky  in   the    high  window 
blank  and  reeling, 
Turns  the    long    light    that    drops 
adown  the  wall, 
Turn  the  black  flies  that  crawl  along 
the  ceiling,  — 
All  are  turning,  all  the  day,  and  we 
with  all. 
And  a;ll  day  the  iron  wheels  are  dron- 

And  sometimes  we  could  pray, 
'  O  ye  wheels '  (breaking  out  in  a  mad 
nioauing), 
'  Stop  !  be  silent  for  to-day  ! '  " 


vm. 

Ay,  be  silent !    Let  them  hear  each 
other  breathing 
For  a  moment,  mouth  to  mouth ; 
Let  them  touch  each  other's  hands,  in 
a  fresh  wreathing 
Of  their  tender  luuuan  youth ; 
Let  them  feel  that  this  cold  metallic 
motion 
Is  not  all  the  life  God  fashions  or 
reveals ; 
Let    them    prove    their  living   souls 
against  the  notion 
That  they  live  in  you,  or  under  you, 
O  wheels  ! 
Still,  all  day,  the  iron  wheelsgo  onward. 
Grinding  life  down  from  its  mark; 
And  the  children's  souls,  which  God 
is  calling  sunward. 
Spin  on  blindly  in  the  dark. 

IX. 

Now  tell  the  poor  young  children,  O 
my  brothers, 
To  look  up  to  Him,  and  pray; 
So  the  blessed  One  wlio  blesseth  all 
the  others 
"SVill  bless  them  another  day. 
They  answer,  "Who  is  God,  that  he 
should  hear  us 
While  the  rushing  of  the  iron  wheels 
is  stirred  ? 
When  we  sob  aloud,  the  human  crea- 
tures near  us 
Pass  by,  hearing  not,  or  answer  not 
a  word; 
And  loe  hear  not  (for  the  wheels  in 
their  resounding) 
Strangers  sjieaking  at  the  door. 
Is  it  likely  God,  with  angels  singing 
round  him. 
Hears  our  weeping  any  more  ? 


"  Two  words,  indeed,  of  jirayiug  we 
remember; 
And  at  midnight's  hour  of  harm, 
'  Our  Father,'  looking  upward  in  the 
chamber. 
We  say  softly  for  a  charm. i 

'  A  fact  rendered  pathetically  historical 
by  Mr.  Home's  report  of  his  commission. 
The  name  of  the  poet,  of  "Orion"  and 
"  Cosmo  de'  Medici  "  has,  however,  a  change 
of  associations,  and  comes  in  time  to  re- 
mind me  that  we  have  some  noble  poetic 
heat  of  literature  still,  however  open  to  the 
reproach  of  being  somewhat  gelid  in  our 
humanity.  — 1844. 


A   CHILD   ASLEEP. 


523 


We  know  no  other  words  except '  Our 
Father;' 
And  we  think,  that,  in  some  pause 
of  angels'  song, 
God  may  phick  them  witli  the  silence 
sweet  to  gather. 
And    hokl    both   within    his    right 
hand,  which  is  strong. 
'  Our  Father  !  '    If  he  heard  us,  he 
would  surely 
(For  they  call  him  good  and  mild) 
Answer,    smiling    down    the_  steep 
world  very  i:)urely, 
'  Come  and  rest  with  me,  my  child.' 

XI. 

"  But,  no  !  "  say  the  children,  weep- 
ing faster, 
"  He  is  speechless  as  a  stone; 
And  they  tell  us,  of  his  image  is  the 
master 
"Who  commands  us  to  work  on. 
Go  to  !  "  say  the  children,  —  "  up  in 
heaven, 
Dark,   wheel-like,    turning    clouds 
are  all  we  find. 
Do  not  mock  us:  grief  has  made  us 

unbelieving: 
We  look  up  for  God;  but  tears  have 

made  us  blind." 
Do  you  hear  the  children  weeping  and 
disproving, 
O  my  brothers,  what  ye  preach  ? 
For  God's  possible  is  taught   by  his 
world's  loving  — 
And  the  children  doubt  of  each. 

XII. 

And  well  may  the  children  weep  be- 
fore you  ! 
They  are  weary  ere  they  run ; 
They  have  never  seen  the  sunshine, 
nor  the  glory 
Which  is  Ijrigiiter  than  the  sun. 
They  know  the  grief  of  man,  without 
its  wisdom ; 
They  sink  in  man's  despair,  without 
its  calm; 
Are    slaves,   without    the    liberty  in 
Christdom; 
Are  martyrs,  by  the  pang  without 
the  palm: 
Are  worn  as  if  with   age,  yet  unre- 
trievingly 
The  harvest  of  its  memories  can- 
not reap; 
Are  orphans  of  the  earthly  love  and 
heavenly  — 
Let  them  weep  !  let  them  weep  ! 


XIII. 

They  look   up  with   their  pale    and 
sunken  faces, 
And  their  look  is  dread  to  see. 
For  they  mind  you  of  their  angels  in 
high  places. 
With  eyes  turned  on  Deity. 
"How  long,"  they  say,  "how  long, 
O  cruel  nation. 
Will  you  stand,  to  move  the  world 
on  a  child's  heart, — 
Stifle  down  with  a  mailed  heel  its  pal- 
pitation, 
And  tread  onward  to  your  throne 
amid  the  mart  ? 
Our  blood  splashes  upward,  O  gold- 
heaper. 
And  your  purple  shows  your  path  ! 
But    the    child's    sob   in    the   silence 
curses  (lcc}iiT 
Than     the     strong    man    in    his 
wrath." 


A  CHILD  ASLEEP. 


How  he  sleepeth,  having  drunken 
Weary  childhood's  mandragore  ! 
From  its  pretty  eyes  have  sunken 
Pleasures  to  make  room  for  more ; 
Sleeping  near  the  withered  nosegay 
which  he  pulled  the  day  before. 

II. 

Nosegays  !  leave  them  for  the  wak- 
ing; 
Throw    them     earthward    where 
they  grew : 
Dim  are  such  beside  the  breaking 
Amaranths  he  looks  unto: 
Folded  eyes  see  brighter  colors  than 
the  ojien  ever  do. 

in. 

Heaven-flowers  rayed  by  shadows 
golden 
From  the  palms  they  sprang  be- 
neath, 
Now,  perhaps,  divinely  holden. 
Swing  against  him  in  a  wreath: 
We  may  think  so  from  the  quicken- 
ing of    his   bloom    and    of    his 
breath. 


I 


324 


THE   FOURFOLD    ASPECT. 


IV. 

Vision  unto  vision  calletli 
Wliile  the  yonng  child  dreameth 
on: 
Fair,  O  dreamer,  thee  befalleth 
With  the  glory  thou  hast  won  ! 
Darker  wast  thou  in  the  garden  yes- 
terniorn  bv  summer-sun. 


V. 

"We  should  see  the  spirits  ringing 
Round     thee,     were     the     clouds 
away : 
'Tis    the  child-heart  draws    them, 
singing 
In  the  silent-seeming  clay  — 
Singing  !  stars  that  seem  the  mutest 
WQ  i7i  music  all  the  way. 


VI. 

As  the  moths  around  a  taj^er, 
As  the  bees  around  a  rose, 
As  the  gnats  around  a  vapor, 
So  the  spirits  group  and  close 
Round  about  a  holj^  childhood   as  \i 
drinking  its  repose. 


VII. 

Shapes  of  brightness  overlean  thee, 

Flash  their  diadems  of  youtli 
On  the  ringlets  which   half  screen 
thee. 
While    thou    smilest  .  .  .  not   in 
sooth 
T]nj  smile,  but  the  overfair  one,  dropt 
from  some  ethereal  mouth. 


viir. 

Haply  it  is  angels'  duty. 

During  slumber,  shade  by  shade 
To  fine  down  this  childish  beauty 
To  the  thing  it  must  be  made 
?>r<'  the  world  shall  bring  it  praises, 
or  the  tomb  shall  see  it  fade. 


IX. 

Softly,  softly  !  make  no  noises  ! 
Now  he  lieth  dead  and  dumb; 
Now  he  hears  the  angels'  voices 
Folding  silence  iu  the  room; 
Now  he  muses  deep  the  meaning   of 
the  hoavon-^vords  as  they  come. 


Speak  not !  he  is  consecrated; 

Breathe  no  breath  across  his  ej'es: 
Lifted  up  and  separated 
On  the  liand  of  God  he  lies 
In  a  sweetness  beyond  touching  held 
in  cloistral  sanctities. 


XI. 

Could  ye  bless  him,  fatlier,  mother  — 

Bless  the  dimple  in  his  cheek  ? 
Dare  ye  look  at  one  another, 
And  the  benediction  speak  ? 
Would  ye  not  break  out  in  weeping, 
and     confess     yourselves     too 
weak  ? 

XII. 

He  is  harmless,  ye  are  sinful; 
Ye  are  troubled,  he  at  ease: 
From  his  slumber,  virtue  winful 
Floweth  outward  with  increase. 
Dare  not  bless  him  !  but  be  blessed  by 
his  iieace,  and  go  in  peace. 


THE  FOURFOLD  ASPFXTC. 


Whkn  ye  stood  up  in  the  house 

With  your  little  childish  feet, 
And,  in  touching  life's  first  shows, 

First  the  touch  of  love  did  meet,  — 
Love  and  nearness  seeming  one. 

By  tlie  heartlight  cast  before, 
And  of  all  beloveds,  none 

Standing  farther  than  the  door; 
Not  a  name  being  dear  to  thought, 

With  its  owner  l>eyoud  call ; 
Not  a  face,  unless  it  brought 

Its  own  shadow  to  the  wall; 
AVhen  tlie  worst  recorded  change 

Was  of  apple  dropt  from  bough. 
When  love's  sorrow  seemed  more 
strange 

Than    love's    treason    can     seem 
now: 
Then,  tlie  Loving  took  you  up 

Soft,  upon  their  elder  knees, 
Telling  why  the  statues  droop 

rndcrneath  the  clnirchyard  trees, 


i 


HI-»H 


TIIF.    FOURFOLD  ASPFCT. 


325 


And  how  ye  must  lie  beneath  tlieni 
Through    the    winters    long    and 
deep, 
Till    the     last    trump    overbrcatho 
them, 
And  ye  smile  out  of  your  sleep. 
Oh,   ye   lifted   up   your   head,  and   it 
seemed  as  if  they  said 
A  tale  of  faiiy  ships 

With  a  swan-wing  for  a  sail; 

Oh,  ye  kissed  their  loving  lips 

For  the  merry,  merry  tale  — 

So  carelessly  ye    thought    upon  the 

dead. 


II. 

Soon  ye  read  in  solemn  stories 

Of  the  men  of  long  ago, 
Of  the  pale  bewildering  glories 

Shining  farther  than  we  know; 
Of  the  heroes  with  the  laurel, 

Of  the  poets  with  the  bay. 
Of  the  two   world's  earnest  quar- 
rel 
For  that  lieauteous  Helena; 
How  Achilles  at  the  poi'tal 

Of  the  tent  heard  footsteps  nigh. 
And  his  strong  heart,  half-immor- 
tal, 
Met  the  ktitai  with  a  cry; 
How  Ulysses  left  the  sunlight 

For  the  pale  eidola  race. 
Blank  and  passive  through  the  dun 
light. 
Staring  blindly  in  his  face; 
How  that  true  wife  said  to  Ptetus, 
With    calm   smile   and   wounded 
heart, 
'■  Sweet,  it  hurts  not  !  "     How  Ad- 
metus 
Saw  his  blessed  one  depart: 
How  King  Arthur  proved  his  mis- 
sion. 
And  Sir  Roland  wound  his  horn. 
And  at  Sangreal's  moony  vision 
Swords    (lid     bristle     round     like 
corn. 
Oh,   ye  lifted   up  your   head,  and   it 
seemed,  the  while  ye  read, 
That  this  death  then  must  be 

found 
A  Valhalla  for  the  crowned, 
The  heroic  who  prevail: 
None  be  sure  can  enter  in 
Far  below  a  i>alad"n 
Of  a  noble,  uol)le  te''H  — 
5o    awfully    ve     thought     Upoii     the 
dead  ! 


III. 
Ay,  but  soon  ye  woke  nj)  shrieking, 

As  a  child  that  wakes  at  night 
From  a  dream  of  sisters  s]>eaking 

In  a  garden's  summer-light.  — 
That  wakes  starting  up  and  bound- 
ing. 
In  a  lonely,  lonely  bed. 
With  a  wall  of  darkness  round  him, 

Stifling  black  about  his  head  ! 
And  the  full  sense  of  your  mortal 

Rushed  ujion  you  deep  and  loud, 
And  ye  heard  the  thunder  hurtle 
From  the  silence  of  the  cloud. 
Funeral-toi'ches  at  your  gateway 
Threw  a  dreadful  light  within. 
All   things   changed:    you   rose    up 
straightway. 
And  saluted  Death  and  Sin. 
Since,  vour  outward  man  has  ral- 
lied. 
And  your  eye  and   voice  grown 
boUi; 
Yet  the  Sphinx  of  Life  stands  pallid. 

With  her  saddest  secret  told. 
Happy  places  have  grown  holy: 

If  ye  went  where  once  ye  went, 
Only  tears  would  fall  down  slowly. 

As  at  solemn  sacrament. 
Merry  books,  once  read  for  pastime, 

If  ye  dared  to  read  again. 
Only  memories  of  the  last  time 

NN'ould  swim  darkly  up  the  brain. 
Household    names,   which  used   to 
flutter 
Through  your  laughter  unawares, 
God's  divinest  ye  could  utter 
With     less     trembling     in     your 
prayers. 
Ye  have  dropt  adown  your  head,  and 
it  seems  as  if  ye  tread 
On   your  own    hearts  in   the 

path 
Ye  are  called  to  in  His  wrath. 
And  your   prayers  go   uj)  in 

wail 
—  "Dost  Thou  see,  then,  all 

our  loss, 
O  Thou  agonized  on  cross  ? 
Art  thou  reading  all  its  tale  ?  " 
So    mournfully    ye    think    upon    the 
dead  ! 

IV. 

Pray,  pray,  thou  who  al.so  weei)est, 
And  the  drops  will  slacken  so. 

Weep,  weep,  aiul  the  watch  thou 
keepest 
With  a  quicker  count  will  go. 


[-♦-•-♦H 


326 


NIGHT  AND    THE   MERRY  MAN. 


Think:  the  shadow  on  the  dial 

For  the  nature  most  undone 

Marks  the  passing  of  the  trial, 

Proves  the  presence  of  the  sun. 
Look,  look  up,  in  starry  passion. 

To  the  throne  above  the  spheres: 
Learn:  the  spirit's  gravitation 

Still  must  differ  from  the  tear's. 
Hope:   M'ith   all  the  strength  thou 
usest 
In  embracing  thy  despair. 
Love :  the  earthly  love  thoii  losest 

Shall  retnrn  to  thee  more  fair. 
"Work:  make  clear  the  forest-tangles 

Of  the  wildest  stranger-land. 
Trust:  the  blessed  deathly  angels 
"Whisper,     "  Sabbath     hours     at 
hand  !  " 
By  the  heart's  wound  when  most 
gory. 
By  the  longest  agony. 
Smile  !  —  Behold  in  sudden  glory 
The  Transfigured  smiles  on  tliee  .' 
And  ye  lifted  up  your  head,  and  it 
seemed  as  if  He  said, 
"  My  beloved,  is  it  so  ? 
Have  ye  tasted  of  my  woe  ? 
Of    my  heaven  ye  shall  not 

fail !  " 
He  stands  brightly  where  the 

shade  is, 
"With  the  keys  of  Death  and 

Hades, 
And  there,  ends  the  mournful 
tale  — 
So  hopefully  ye  think  upon  the  dead  ! 


NIGHT  AND  THE  MERRY 
MAN. 


NIGHT. 


'Neath  my  moon,  what  doest  thou, 
"With  a  somewhat  paler  brow 
Than  she  giveth  to  the  ocean  ? 
He,  without  a  pulse  or  motion. 
Muttering  low  before  her  stands, 
Lifting  his  invoking  hands 
Like  a  seer  before  a  sprite, 
To  catch  her  oracles  of  light: 
But  thy  soul  out-trembles  now 
Many  pulses  on  thy  brow. 


Where  be  all  thy  laughters  clear, 
Others  laughed  alone  to  hear  ? 
Where    thy    quaint    jests,    said    for 

fame? 
Where  thy  dances,  mixed  with  game? 
Where  thy  festive  companies, 
Mooned  o'er  with  ladies'  eyes 
All  more  bright  for  thee,  I  trow  ? 
'Neath  my  moon,  what  doest  thou  ? 


THE  MERRY  MAN. 

I  AM  digging  my  warm  heart 
Till  I  find  its  coldest  part; 
I  am  digging  wide  and  low. 
Farther  than  a  spade  will  go, 
Till  that,  when  the  pit  is  deep 
And  large  enough,  I  there  may  heap 
All  my  present  pain  and  past 
Joy,  dead  things  that  look  aghast 
By  the  daylight:  now  'tis  done. 
Throw  them  in,  by  one  and  one  '. 
I  must  laugh,  at  rising  sun. 

Memories, —  of  fancy's  golden 
Treasures    which    my    hands     have 

holden 
Till  the  chillness  made  them  ache; 
Of    childhood's  hopes,  that  used    to 

wake 
If  birds  were  in  a  singing  strain, 
And,  for  less  cause,  sleep  again; 
Of  the  moss  seat  in  the  wood 
Where  I  trysted  solitude; 
Of  the  hilltop  where  the  wind 
Used  to  follow  me  behind, 
Then  in  sudden  rush  to  blind 
Both  my  glad  eyes  with  my  hair, 
Taken  gladly  in  the  snare; 
Of  the  climbing  up  the  rocks. 
Of  the  playing  'neath  the  oaks 
Which  retain  beneath  them  now 
Only  shadow  of  tlie  bough; 
Of  the  lying  on  the  grass 
While  the  clouds  did  overpass. 
Only  they,  so  lightly  driven, 
Seeming  betwixt  me  and  heaven; 
Of  the  little  prayers  serene. 
Murmuring  of  earth  and  sin; 
Of  large-leaved  philosophy 
Leaning  fi'om  my  childish  knee; 
Of  poetic  book  sublime. 
Soul-kissed  for  the  first  dear  time, 
Greek  or  English,  ere  I  knew 
Life  was  not  a  poem  too: 
Throw  them  in,  by  one  and  one  ! 
I  must  laiigli,  at  rising  sun. 


EARTH  AND   TIER  PRAISERS. 


327 


—  Of  the  glorious  ambitions 

Yet  unquenehed  l)y  their  fruitions; 

Of  the  reading  out  the  nights ; 

Of  the  straining  at  mad  lieights; 

Of  achievements,  less  descried 

By  a  dear  few  than  magnified; 

Of  praises  from  the  many  earned 

When  praise  from  love  was    undis- 

cerned; 
Of  the  sweet  reflecting  gladness 
Softened  by  itself  to  sadness: 
Throw  theni  in,  by  one  and  one  ! 
I  must  laugh,  at  rising  sun. 

What  are  these  ?    more,   more   than 

these ! 
Throw  in  dearer  memories  !  — 
Of  voices  whereof  but  to  speak 
Makes  mine  own  all  sunk  and  weak; 
Of    smiles    the   thought   of   which   is 

sweeping 
All  my  soul  to  floods  of  weeping; 
Of  looks  whose  absence  fain  would 

weigh 
My  looks  to  the  ground  for  aye; 
Of  clasping  hands  —  ah  me,  I  wring 
ISIine,  and  in  a  tremble  fling 
Downward,  downward,  all  this  i^ain- 

ing ! 
Partings  with  the  sting  remaining, 
Meetings  with  a  deejier  throe 
Since  the  joy  is  ruined  so. 
Changes  with  a  fiery  burning, 
(Shadows  upon  all  the  turning). 
Thoughts  of  .  .  .  with  a  storm  they 

came. 
Them  I  have  not  breath  to  name : 
Downward,  downward,  be  they  cast 
In  the  pit !   and  now  at  last 
My  work  beneath  the  moon  is  done, 
And  I  shall  laugh,  at  rising  sun. 

But  let  me  pause  or  ere  I  cover 
All  my  treasures  darkly  over: 
I  will  speak  not  in  thine  ears, 
Only  tell  my  beaded  tears 
Silently,  most  silently. 
When  the  last  is  calmly  told. 
Let  that  same  moist  rosary 
With  the  rest  sepidchred  be. 
Finished  now  !     The  darksome  mould 
Sealeth  up  the  darksome  pit. 
I  will  lay  no  stone  on  it: 
Grasses  I  will  sow  instead. 
Fit  for  Queen  Titania's  tread; 
Flowers,  encolored  with  the  sun, 
And  at  at  written  upon  none; 
Thus,  whenever  saileth  by 
The  Lady  World  of  dainty  eye, 


Not  a  grief  shall  here  remain, 

Silken  shoou  to  damp  or  stain ; 

And  while  she   lisps,   "I    have    not 

seen 
Any  place  more  smooth  and  clean," 
Here  she  cometh  !     Ha,  ha  !  who 
Laughs  as  loud  as  I  can  do  ? 


EARTH  AND   HER 
PRAISERS. 


The  Earth  is  old ; 
Six  thousand  winters  make  her  heart 

a-cold : 
The  sceptre  slanteth  from  her  palsied 

hold. 
She    saith,   "  'las  me  !      God's  word 

that  I  was  '  good  ' 

Is  taken  back  to  heaven. 
From  whence,  when  any  sound  comes, 

I  am  riven 
By  some  sharji  bolt;  and  now  no  angel 

would 
Descend  with  sweet  dew-silence  on 

my  mountains. 
To  glorify  the  lovely  river  fountains 

That  gush  along  their  side: 
I  see,  O  weary  change  !     I  see  instead 
This  human  wrath  and  pride, 
These   thrones    and    tombs,    judicial 

wrong  and  l)lood. 
And  bitter  words  are    poured  upon 

mine  head  — 
'  O  Earth  !  thou  art  a  stage  for  tricks 

unholy, 
A  church  for  most  remorseful  melan- 
choly; 
Thou  art  so  siDoilt  we  should  forget 

we  had 
An  Eden  in  thee,  wert  thou  not  so 

sad  ! ' 
Sweet  children,  I  am  old  !  ye,  every 

one, 
Do  keep  me  from  a  portion   of  my 

sun: 
Give    praise    in    change    for 
brightness  ! 
That  I  may  shake  my  hills  in  infinite- 

ness 


328 


EARTH  AND   TIER  P RAISERS. 


Of  breezy  laughter,  as    in    youthful 

mirth, 
To  hear  Earth's  sons  and  daughters 

praising  Earth.'' 

II. 

Whereupon  a  child  began, 
With  spirit  running  up  to  man 
As  by  angel's  shining  ladder, 
(May  he  find  no  cloud  above  !) 
Seeming  he  had  ne'er  been  sadder 

All  hfs  days  than  now. 
Sitting  in  the  chestnut-grove, 
With  that  joyous  overflow 
Of  smiling  from  his  month  o'er  brow 
And  cheek  and  chin,  as  if  the  breeze, 
Leaning  tricksy  from  the  trees 
To  part  his  golden  hairs,  had  blown 
Into  an  hundred  smiles  that  one. 


III. 

"  O  rare,  rare  Earth  !  "  he  saith, 

"  I  will  praise  thee  presently; 
Not  to-day,  I  have  no  breath: 

I  have  hunted  squirrels  three  — 
Two  ran  down  in  the  furzy  hollow; 
Where  I  could  not  see  nor  follow; 
One  sits  at  the  top  of  the  filbert-tree, 
With  a  yellow  nut  and  a  mock  at  me: 

Presently  it  shall  be  done  1 
When  I  see  which  way  these  two  have 

run. 
When  the  mocking  one  at  the  filbert- 
top 
Shall  leap  adown,  and  beside  me  stop. 

Then,  rare  Earth,  rare  Earth, 
Will  I  pause,  having  known  thy  worth, 

To  say  all  good  of  thee  !  " 


IV. 

Next  a  lover,  —  with  a  dream 
'Neath  his  waking  eyelids  hidden, 
And  a  frequent  sigh  unbidden, 
And  an  idlesse  all  the  day 
Beside  a  wani^ering  stream. 
And  a  silence  that  is  made 
Of  a  word  he  dares  not  say,  — 
Shakes  slow  his  pensive  head: 

"  Earth,  Earth  !  "  saith  he, 
"  If  spirits,  like  thy  roses,  grew 
On  one  stalk,  and  winds  austere 
Could  but  only  blow  tliem  near, 

To  share  each  other's  dew; 
If,  when  summer  rains  agree 
To  beautify  thy  hills,  I  knew 
Looking  off  them  I  might  see 

Some  one  very  beauteous  too,  — 


Then  Earth,"  saith  he, 
"I  would  praise  .  .  .  nay,  nay  —  not 

thee  !  " 

V. 

Will  the  pedant  name  her  next  ? 

Crabbed  with  a  crabbed  text 

Sits  he  in  his  study  nook. 

With  his  elbow  on  a  book, 

And  with  stately  crossed  knees, 

And  a  wrinkle  deeply  thrid 

Through  his  lowering  brow, 

Caused  by  making  proofs  enow 

That  Plato  in  "  Parmenides  " 

Meant  the  same  Spinoza  did ; 

Or  that  an  hundred  of  the  groping 

Like  himself  had  made  one  Homer, 

Hoineros  being  a  misnomer. 

What  hath  he  to  do  with  praise 

Of  Earth  or  aught  ?    Whene'er  the 

sloping 
Sunbeams  through  his  windows  daze 
His  eyes  off  from  the  learned  phrase, 
Straightway  he  draws  close  the  cur- 
tain. 
May  abstraction  keep  him  dumb  ! 
Were  his  lips  to  ope,  'tis  certain 
"  Derivatum  est  "  would  come. 

VI. 

Then  a  mourner  moveth  pale 
In  a  silence  full  of  wail. 
Raising  not  his  sunken  head 
Because  he  wandered  last  that  way 
With  that  one  beneath  the  clay: 
Weeping  not,  because  that  one. 
The  only  one  who  would  have  said, 
"  Cease  to  weep,  beloved  !  "  has  gone 
AVhence  returneth  comfort  none. 
The  silence  breaketh  suddenly,  — 
"  Earth,  I  praise  thee  !  "  crieth  he, 
"  Thou  hast  a  grave  for  also  me." 

VII. 

Ha,  a  poet !  know  him  by 
The  ecstasy-dilated  eye. 
Not  uncharged  with  tears  that  ran 
Upward  from  his  heart  of  man; 
By  the  cheek,  from  hour  to  hour, 
Kindled  bright,  or  sunken  wan 
With  a  sense  of  lonely  power; 
By  the  brow  uplifted  higher 
Than  others,  for  more  low  declining; 
By  the  lip  which  words  of  fire 
Overboiling  have  burned  white, 
While  they  gave  the  nations  light: 
Ay,  in  every  time  and  place, 
Ye  may  know  the  poet's  face 
By  the  shade  or  shining. 


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Of  the  close  trees  o'er  the  brhii 
Of  a  sunshine-haunted  stream. "- 


Page  329. 


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EARTH  AND    HER   PRAISERS. 


329 


VIII. 

'Neath  a  golden  clovid  he  stands, 

Spreading  his  impassioned  hands. 

•■  O  God's  Earth  !  "  he  saith,  "  the  sign 

From  the  Father-soul  to  mine 

Of  all  beauteous  luystcries, 

Of  all  perfect  iniai^es 

Which,  divine  in  his  divine, 

In  my  luiman  only  are 

Very'excellent  and  fair! 

Think  not,  Earth,  that  I  wonld  raise 

AVeary  forehead  in  thy  praise, 

(Weary,  that  I  cannot  go 

Farther  from  thy  region  low,) 

If  were  struck  no  richer  meanings 

From  thee  than  thyself.    The  leanings 

Of  the  close  trees  o'er  the  brim 

Of  a  sunshine-haunted  stream 

Have  a  sound  beneath  their  leaves, 

Not  of  wind,  not  of  wind. 
Which  the  poet's  voice  achieves: 
The  faint  mountains,  heaped  behind, 
Have  a  falling  on  their  tops. 

Not  of  dew,  not  of  dew. 
Which  the  poet's  fancy  drops: 
Viewless  things  his  eyes  can  view, 
Driftings  of  his  dream  do  light 
All  the  skies  by  day  and  night. 
And  the  seas  that  deepest  roll 
Carry  murmurs  of  his  soul. 
Earth,  I  praise  thee!  praise  thou  iiit ! 
God  perfectetli  his  creation 
AYith  this  recipient  poet-passion, 
And  makes  the  beautiful  to  be. 
I  praise  thee,  O  beloved  sign, 
From  the  God-soul  unto  mine  ! 
Praise  me,  that  I  cast  on  thee 
The  cunning  sweet  interpretation, 
Tlie  help  and  glory  and  dilation 

Of  mine  immortalitv  !  " 


IX. 

There  was  silence.    None  did  dare 
To  nse  again  the  spoken  air 
Of  that  far-charming  voice,  until 
A  Christian  resting  on  the  hill. 
With  a  thoughtful  smile  subdued 
(Seeming  learnt  in  solitude) 
Which  a  weeper  might  have  viewed 
Without  new  teai's,  did  softly  say. 
And  looked  up  unto  heaven  alway 
While  he  i^raised  the  Earth, — 

"O  Earth, 
I  count  the  praises  thou  art  worth, 
By  thy  waves  that  move  aloud, 
By  thy  hills  against  the  cloud. 
By  thy  valleys  warm  and  green. 
By  the  copses'  elms  between, 


us 


By  their  birds,  which,  like  a  sprite 
Scattered  by  a  strong  delight 
Into  fragments  musical, 
Stir  and  sing  in  every  bush ; 
By  thy  silver  founts  that  fall. 
As  if  to  entice  the  stars  at  night 
To  thine  heart;  by  grass  and  rush. 
And  little  weeds  the  children  pull, 
Mistook  for  flowers  ! 

—  Oh,  beautiful 
Art  thou.  Earth,  albeit  worse 
Than  in  heaven  is  called  good  ! 
Good  to  us,  that  we  may  know 
Meeklj-  from  thy  good  to  go; 
Mliile  the  holy,  crying  blood 
Puts  its  music  kind  and  low 
'Twixt  snch  ears  as  are  not  dull, 
And  thine  ancient  curse  ! 


"  Praised  be  the  mosses  soft 

In  thy  forest  pathways  oft. 

And    the    thorns,    which    make 

think    • 
Of  the  thornless  river-brink 

Where  the  ransomed  tread; 
Praised  be  thy  sunny  gleams, 
And  the  storm,  that  worketh  dreams 

Of  calm  unfinished; 
Praised  be  thine  active  days. 
And  thy  night-time's  solemn  need, 
When  in  God's  dear  book  we  read 

No  nhjht  shall  he  therein  ; 
Praised  be  thy  dwellings  warm 
By  household  fagot's  cheerful  blaze, 
AVhere,  to  hear  of  pardoned  sin, 
Pauseth  oft  the  merry  din, 
Save  the  babe"s  upon  the  arm 
Who  croweth  to  the  crackling  wood: 
Yea,  and,  better  understood, 
Praised  be  thy  dwellings  cold, 
Hid  beneath  the  churchyard  mould, 
Where  the  bodies  of  the  saints, 
Separate  from  earthly  taints, 
Lie  asleep,  in  blessing  lionnd, 
Waiting  for  the  trumpet's  sound 
To  free  them  into  blessing —  none 
Weeping  more  beneath  the  sun. 
Though  dangerous  words  of  human 

love 
Be  graven  very  near,  above. 


XI. 


"Earth,   we   Christians    praise    thee 

thus, 
Even  for  the  change  that  comes 
With  a  grief  from  thee  to  us; 
For  thy  cradles  and  thy  tombs. 


330 


THE    VIRGIN  MARY    TO    THE    CHILD   JESUS. 


For  the  pleasant  corn  and  wine 
And  summer-heat,  and  also  for 
The  frost  upon  the  sycamore 
And  hail  upon  the  vine  !  " 


THE   VIRGIN   MARY   TO 
THE  CHILD  JESUS. 


But  see  the  Virgin  blest 
Hath  laid  her  babe  to  rest." 

Milton's  Hymn  on  the  Nativity. 


Sleep,  sleep,  mine  Holy  One  ! 
My  flesh,  my  Lord  !  — what  name  ?  I 

do  not  know 
A  name  that  seemeth  npt  too  high  or 
low. 
Too  far  from  me  or  heaven : 
My  Jesus,  tliat  is  best  !  that  word  be- 
ing given 
By  the  majestic    angel   whose  com- 
mand 
Was  softly  as  a  man's    beseeching, 

said. 
When  I  and  all  the  earth  appeared  to 
stand 
In  the  great  overflow 
Of  light  celestial  from  his  wings  and 
head. 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  saving  One  ! 


II. 

And  art  thou  come  for  saving,  baby- 
browed 

And  speechless  Being  —  art  thou 
come  for  saving  ? 

The  palm  that  grows  beside  our  door 
is  bowed 

By  treadings  of  the  low  wind  from 
the  south, 

A  restless  shadow  through  the  cham- 
ber waving: 

Upon  its  bough  a  bird  sings  in  the 
sun; 

But  thou,  with  that  close  slumber  on 
thy  mouth. 

Dost  seem  of  wind  and  sun  already 
weary. 

Art  come  for  saving,  O  my  weary 
One  ? 


III. 

Perchance  this  sleep,  that  shutteth  out 

the  dreary 
Earth  sounds  and  motions,  opens  on 
thy  soul 
High  dreams  on  fire  with  God; 
High  songs  that  make  the  pathways 

where  they  roll 
More  bright  than  stars  do  theirs;  and 

visions  new 
Of  thine  eternal  Nature's  old  abode. 
Suffer  this  mother's  kiss. 
Best  thing  that  earthly  is, 
To  glide   the   music    and    the    glory 

through. 
Nor  narrow  in  thy  dream  the  broad 
upliftings 
Of  any  seraph  wing. 
Thus    noiseless,    thus.     Sleep,   sleep, 
my  dreaming  One  ! 

IV. 

The  slumber  of  his  lips  meseems  to 
run 

Through  my  lips  to  mine  heart,  to  all 
its  shiftings 

Of  sensual  life,  bringing  contrarious- 
ness  ' 

In  a  great  calm.  I  feel  I  could  lie 
down 

As  Moses  did,  and  die,'  —  and  then 
live  most. 

I  am  'ware  of  you,  heavenly  Pres- 
ences, 

That  stand  with  your  peculiar  light 
unlost. 

Each  forehead  with  a  high  thought 
for  a  crown. 

Unsunned  i'  the  sunshine !  I  am 
'ware.     Ye  throw 

No  shade  against  the  wall  !  How 
motionless 

Ye  round  me  with  your  living  statu- 
ary, 

While  through  your  whiteness,  in 
and  outwardly, 

Continual  thoughts  of  God  apjiear  to 
go. 

Like  light's  soul  in  itself.  I  bear,  I 
bear 

To  look  upon  the  dropt  lids  of  your 
eyes, 

Though  their  external  shining  testi- 
fies 

To  that  beatitude  within  which  were 

Enough  to  blast  an  eagle  at  his  sun: 

1  It  is  a  Jewish  tradition  that  Moses  died 
of  the  liisses  of  God's  lips. 


THE    VIRGIN   MARY   TO    THE    CHILD   JESUS. 


331 


I  full  uot  on  my  sad  clay  face  before 

ye,  — 

I  look  on  His.     I  know 
]My  spirit  which  dilateth  with  the  woe 

Of  His  mortality, 

May  well  contain  yonr  glory. 

Yea,  drop  your  lids  more  low. 
Ye  are  but  fellow-woi"shippers  with 
me  ! 

Sleep,  sleep,  my  worshipped  One  ! 


V. 

"We  sate  among  the  stalls  at  Bettile- 

hem; 
The    dumb    kine,   from  their  fodder 
turning  them, 
Softened  their  horned  faces 
To  almost  human  gazes 
Toward  the  newly  Born: 
The  simple  shepherds  from  the  star- 
lit brooks 
Brought  visionary  looks. 
As  yet  in  their  astonied  hearing  rung 

The  strange  sweet  angel-tongue: 
The  magi    of    the    East,  in    sandals 
worn. 
Knelt  reverent,  sweeping  round, 
"With  long  pale  beards,  their  gifts 
upon  the  ground, 
The  incense,  myrrh,  and  gold 
These  baliy  hands  were  impotent  to 

hold: 
So  let  all  earthlies  and  celestials  wait 
Upon  thy  royal  state. 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  kingly  One  ! 


VI. 

I  am  not  proud  —  meek  angels,  ye  in- 
vest 

New  meeknesses  to  hear  s;ich  utter- 
ance rest 

On  mortal  lips,  —  "I  am  not  proud  " 
—  not  proud .' 

Albeit  in  my  tlesh  God  sent  his  Son, 

Albeit  over  him  my  head  is  bowed 

As  others  bow  before  him,  still  mine 
heart 

Bows  lower  than  their  knees.     O  cen- 
turies 

That  roll  in  vision  your  futurities 
My  future  grave  athwart, 

AVhose   murmurs   seem   to  reach  me 
while  I  keep 
Watch  o'er  this  sleeji, 

Say    of    me    as    the    Heavenly  said, 
"Thou  art 


The  blessedest  of   women  !  "  — bless- 

edest, 
Not    holiest,    not    noblest,    no    high 

name 
Whose  height  misjilaced  may  pierce 

me  like  a  shame 
When  I  sit  meek  in  heaven  ! 

For  me,  for  me. 
God  knows  that  I  am  feeble  like  the 

rest ! 
I   often  wandered  forth  more    child 

than  maiden. 
Among  the  midnight  hills  of  Galilee 
Whose  summits  looked  heaven- 
laden, 
Listening  to  silence  as  it  seemed  to  be 
God's  voice,   so  soft  yet    strong,   so 

fain  to  press 
Upon  my  heart  as  heaven  did  on  the 

height. 
And   waken    up    its    shadows    bv    a 

light, 
And  show  its  vileuess  by  a  holiness. 
Then   I  knelt  down  most  silent  like 

the  night. 
Too  self-renounced  for  fears. 
Raising  my  small  face  to  the  bound- 
less blue 
Whose  stars  did  mix  and  tremble  in 

my  tears : 
God  heard  them  falling  after,  with  his 

dew. 


VII. 

So,  seeing  my  corruption,  can  I  see 

This  Incorruptible  now  born  of  me. 

This  fair  new  Innocence  no  sun  did 
chance 

To  shine  on  (for  even  Adam  was  no 
child), 

Created  from  my  nature  all  defiled, 

This  mystery,  from  out  mine  igno- 
rance, — 

Nor  feel  the  blindness,  stain,  corrup- 
tion, more 

Than  others  do,  or  /  did  heretofore  ? 

Can  hands  wherein  such  burden  j^ure 
has  been 

Not  open  with  the    cry,   "  Unclean, 
unclean," 

More   oft  than  any  else  beneath  the 
skies  ? 
Ah  King,  ah  Christ,  ah  sou  ! 

The  kine,  the  shepherds,  the  abased 
wise 
Must  all  less  lowly  wait 
Than  I,  upon  thy  state. 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  kingly  One. 


332 


.4,V   ISLAND. 


Yin. 

Art  thou  a  King,  then?     Come,  his 
universe, 
Come,  crown  me  him  a  King. 
Phick   rays    from    all    such   stars   as 
never  fiing 
Their  light  where  fell  a  curse, 
And  make  a  crowning  for  this  kingly 

Virow. 
What  is  my  word  ?    Each  empyreal 
star 
Sits  in  a  sphere  afar 
In  shining  ambuscade: 
The  child-l)row,  crowned  by  none, 
Keeps  its  unchildlike  shade. 
Sleep,  sleep,  my  crownless  One. 

IX. 

Unchildlike  shade  !     No   other   babe 
doth  wear 

An  aspect  verj'  sorrowful,  as  thou. 

No  small  babe-smiles  my   watching 
heart  has  seen 

To  float   like   speech   the    speechless 
lips  between. 

No  dovelike  cooing  in  the  golden  air, 

No  quick,  short  joys  of  leaping  baby- 
hood : 
Alas  !  our  earthly  good 

In  lieaven  thought    evil,   seems    too 
good  for  thee. 
Yet  sleep,  luy  weary  One. 


And  then  the  drear,  sharp  tongue  of 

prophecy, 
With  the  dread  sense  of  things  which 

shall  be  done, 
Doth  smite  me  inly,  like  a  sword  :  a 

sword  ? 
r/ta«"  smites  the  Shepherd."    Then, 

I  think  aloud 
The  words   "despised,"    "rejected," 

every  word 
Recoiling  into  darkness  as  I  view 

The  Darling  on  my  knee. 
Bright  angels,  move  not,  lest  ye  stir 

the  cloud 
Betwixt  my  soul  and  his  futurity. 
I  must  not  die,  with  mother's  work  to 

do, 
And  could  not  live  —  and  see. 

XI. 

It  is  enough  to  bear 
This  image  still  and  fair; 
This  holier  in  sleep 
Than  a  saint  at  prayer; 


Tliis  aspect  of  a  cliild 
Who  never  sinned  or  smiled; 
This  presence  in  an  infant's  face: 
This  sadness  most  like  love; 
This  love  than  love  more  deep; 
This  weakness  like  omnipotence 
It  is  so  strong  to  move. 
Awful  is  this  watching  place, 
Awful  what  I  see  from  hence,  — 
A  king  without  regalia, 
A  God  without  the  thunder, 
A  child  without  the  heart  for  play; 
Ay,  a  Creator,  rent  asunder 
From  his  lirst  glory,  and  cast  away 
On  his  own  world,  for  me  alone 
To    hold    in    hands  created,   crying, 
"Son!  " 

XII. 

That  tear  fell  not  on  thee, 
Beloved,    yet    thou    stirrest    in     thy 

slumi)er! 
Thou,  stirring  not  for  glad  sounds  out 

of  number, 
Wliich   through   the  vibratory  palm- 
trees  run 
From  summer  wind  and  bird, 
So  quickly  hast  thou  heard 
A  tear  fall  silently  ? 
AVak'st  thou,  O  loving  one  ? 


AN  ISLAND. 


.VU  goeth  but  Goddis  will."  —  Old  Pokt. 


My  dream  is  of  an  island  place, 
Which  distant  seas  keep  lonely, — 

A  little  island  on  whose  face 
The  stars  are  watchers  only : 

Those  bright,  still  stars  !   they  need 
not  seem 

Brighter  or  stiller  in  my  dream. 

II. 

An  island  full  of  hills  and  dells. 

All  ruin]iled  and  uneven 
With  green  recesses,  sudden  swells, 

And  odorous  ^'allej's  driven 
So  deep  and  straight,  that  always  there 
The  wind  is  cradled  to  soft  air. 


Hh#H 


AN    ISLAND. 


333 


T 


III. 

Hills  running  up  to  heaven  for  light 
Through  woods  that  hali'-way  ran, 

As  if  the  wild  earth  mimicked  right 
The  wilder  heart  of  man : 

Onlj^  it  shall  be  greener  far, 

And  gladder,  than  hearts  ever  are. 


IV. 

More    like,   jierhaps,   that    mountain 
piece 
Of  Dante's  paradise. 
Disrupt  to  an  hundred  hills  like  these, 

In  falling  from  the  skies; 
Bringing  within  it  all  the  roots 
Of    heavenly  trees  and  flowers  and 
fruits : 


For,  saving  where  the  graj' rocks  strike 
Their  javelins  up  the  azure, 

Or  -where  deep  fissures,  miser-like. 
Hoard  up  some  fountain  treasure, 

(And  e'en  iu  them,  stooi)  down  and 
hear 

Leaf  sounds  with  water  iu  your  ear). 


VI. 

The  place  is  all  awave  with  trees,  — 
Limes,  myrtles  purple-ueaded, 

Acacias  having  drunk  the  lees 
Of  the  night-dew,  faint-headed. 

And    wan    gray    olive-woods,    which 
seem 

The  fittest  foliage  for  a  dream. 


VII. 

Trees,  trees,  on  all  sides!    Thej'  com- 
bine 
Their  plumy  shades  to  throw. 
Through  whose  clear  fruit  and  blos- 
som fine 
"Whene'er  the  sun  may  go. 
The  ground  beneath  he  deeplj'  stains. 
As  passing  through  cathedral  panes. 


VIII. 

But  little  needs  this  earth  of  ours 
That  shining  from  above  her, 

When  many  pleiades  of  flowers 
(Not  one  lost)  star  her  over; 

The  rays  of  their  unnumbered  hues 

Being  all  refracted  by  the  dews. 


IX. 

Wide-petalled  plants  that  boldly  drink 

The  Aiiireeta  of  the  sky. 
Shut  bells  that  dull  with  rapture  sink. 

And  lolling  buds,  half  shy: 
I  cannot  count  them,  but  between 
Is  room  for  grass  and  mosses  green. 


X. 


And 


brooks,  that  glass  in  different 
strengths 
All  colors  in  disorder, 
Or,  gathering  up  their  silver  lengths 

Beside  their  winding  border, 
Sleep,  haunted  through  the  slumber 

hidden. 
By  lilies  white  as  dreams  in  Eden. 


XI. 

Nor  think  each  arched  tree  with  each 

Too  closely  interlaces 
To  admit  of  vistas  out  of  reach, 

And  broad  moon-lighted  places, 
LT^pon  whose  sward  the  antlered  deer 
May  view  their  double  image  clear. 


XII. 

For  all  this  island's  creature-full 

(Kept  happy  not  by  halves), 
Mild  cows,  that  at  the  vine-wreaths 
pull. 
Then  low  back  at  their  calves 
With  tender  lowings,  to  api^rove 
The  warm  mouths  milking  them  for 
love. 

XIII. 

Free,  gamesome  horses,  antelopes. 

And  harmless  leaping  leopards, 
And  buffaloes  upon  the  slopes, 

And  sheep  unruled  by  shejiherds; 
Hares,    lizards,    hedgehogs,    badgers, 

mice, 
Snakes,  squirrels,   frogs,  and  butter- 
flies. 

siv. 

And  T)irds  that  live  there  in  a  crowd. 
Horned  owls,  rajit  nightingales, 

Larks  bold  with  heaven,  and  peacocks 
proud, 
Self-siiliered  in  those  grand  tails; 

All  creatures  glad  and  safe,  I  deem: 

No  guns  nor  sjiringes  in  my  dream  ! 


I 


334 


AN   ISLAND. 


XV. 

Tlie  island's  edges  are  a-wing 
With  trees  that  overbranch 

The  sea  with  song-birds  welcoming 
The  curlews  to  green  change; 

And  doves  from  half-closed  lids  espy 

The  red  and  purple  fish  go  by. 

XVI. 

One  dove  is  answering  in  trust 

The  water  every  minute, 
Thinking  so  soft  a  murmur  must 

Have  her  mate's  cooing  in  it: 
So  softly  doth  earth's  beauty  round 
Infuse  itself  in  ocean's  sountl. 

XVII. 

My  sanguine  soul  bounds  forwarder 
To  meet  the  bounding  waves; 

Beside  them  straightway  I  repair, 
To  live  within  the  caves: 

And  near  me  two  or  three  may  dwell. 

Whom  dreams  fantastic  jjlease  as  well. 

XVIII. 

Long  winding  caverns,  glittering  far 

Into  a  crystal  distance! 
Through  clefts  of  which,  shall  many  a 
star 

Shine  clear  without  resistance! 
And  carry  down  its  rays  the  smell 
Of  flowers  above  invisible. 

XIX. 

I  said  that  two  or  three  might  choose 
Their  dwelling  near  mine  own,  — 

Those  who  would  change  man's  voice 
and  use, 
For  Nature's  way  and  tone; 

Man's  veering  heart  and  careless  eyes, 

For  Nature's  steadfast  sympathies. 

XX. 

Ourselves,  to  meet  her  faithfulness, 

Shall  play  a  faithful  part: 
Her  beautiful  shall  ne'er  address 

The  monstrous  at  oiu*  heart: 
Her  musical  shall  ever  touch 
Something  within  us  also  such. 

XXI. 

Yet  shall  she  not  our  mistress  live, 
As  doth  the  moon  of  ocean, 

Though  gently  as  the  moon  she  give 
Our  thoughts  a  light  and  motion: 

More  like  a  harp  of  many  lays. 

Moving  its  master  while' he  plays. 


XXII. 

No  sod  in  all  that  island  doth 

Yawn  open  for  the  dead ; 
No  wind  hath  borne  a  traitor's  oath; 

No  earth,  a  mourner's  tread: 
We  cannot  say  by  stream  or  shade, 
"  I  suffered  here,  was  here  betrayed." 

XXIII. 

Our  only  "  farewell  "  we  shall  laugh 

To  shifting  cloud  or  hour. 
And  use  our  only  epitaph 

To  some  bud  turned  a  flower: 
Our  only  tears  shall  serve  to  i^rove 
Excess  iu  jDleasure  or  in  love. 

XXIV. 

Our  fancies  shall  their  plumage  catch 

From  fairest  island-birds, 
AVhose  eggs  let    young  ones  out  at 
hatch, 

Born  singing  I  then  our  words 
Unconsciously  shall  take  the  dyes 
Of  those  prodigious  fantasies. 

XXV. 

Yea,  soon,  no  consonant  unsmooth 
Our  smile-tuned  li]5s  shall  reach; 

Sounds    sweet    as    Hellas    spake    iu 
youth 
Shall  glide  into  our  speech: 

(What  music,  certes,  can  you  find 

As  soft  as  voices  which  are  kind  ?) 

XXVI, 

And  often,  by  the  joy  without 

And  in  us  overcome. 
We,   through    our   musing,    shall    let 
float 

Such  poems  —  sitting  dumb  — 
As  Pindar  might  have  writ  if  he 
Had  tended  sheep  in  Arcady; 

XXVII. 

Or  ^^schylus^  the  pleasant  fields 
He  died  in,  longer  knowing; 

Or  Homer,  had  men's  sins  and  shields 
Been  lost  iu  Meles  flowing; 

Or  i^oet  Plato,  had  the  undim 

Unsetting  Godlight  broke  on  him. 

XXVIII. 

Choose    me    the    cave    most   wortliy 
choice. 

To  make  a  place  for  prayer, 
And  I  will  choose  a  praying  voice 

To  iwur  our  spirits  there: 


THE   SOUL'S    TRAVELLING. 


335 


How  silverly  tlie  echoes  run  ! 
Thy  Kill  be  done,  —  thy  loill  he  done. 

XXIX. 

Gently  yet  strangely  uttered  words  ! 

They  lift  me  from  my  dream; 
The  island  fadeth  with  its  swards 

That  did  no  more  than  seem: 
The  streams  are  dry,  no  sun  could 

find  — 
The  fruits  are  fallen  without  wind. 

XXX. 

So  oft  the  doing  of  God's  will 
Our  foolish  wills  undoeth  ! 
And  yet  what  idle  dream  breaks  ill, 

Which  morning-light  sulidueth  ? 
And   who   would    murmur   and   mis- 
doubt, 
"When  God's  great  sunrise  finds  him 
out? 


THE 


SOUL'S  TRAVEL- 
LING. 


H5tj   t'oepou? 
IIcTacrai   Tapcrou?. 


Synbsius. 


I  DWELL  amid  the  city  ever. 

The  great  humanity  which  beats 

Its  life  along  the  stony  streets. 

Like  a  strong  and  unsunned  river 

In  a  self-made  course, 

I  sit  and  harken  while  it  rolls. 

Very  sad  and  very  hoarse 

Certes  is  the  flow  of  souls; 

Infinitest  tendencies: 

By  the  finite  prest  and  pent. 

In  the  finite,  turbulent: 

How  we  tremble  in  surprise 

When    sometimes,     with    an    awful 

sound, 
God's    great     plummet    strikes     the 

ground  ! 

II. 
The  champ  of  the  steeds  on  the  silver 

bit 
As  they  whirl  the  rich  man's  carriage 

by; 


The  beggar's  whine  as  he  looks  at 
it  — 

But  it  goes  too  fast  for  charity; 

The  trail  on  the  street  of  the  poor 
man's  broom, 

That  the  lady  who  walks  to  her  pal- 
ace-home, 

On  her  silken  skirt  may  catch  no 
dust ; 

The  tread  of  the  liusiness-men  who 
must 

Count  their  per-cents  by  the  paces 
they  take; 

The  cry  of  the  babe  unheard  of  its 
mother 

Though  it  lie  on  her  breast,  while  she 
thinks  of  the  other 

Laid  yesterday  where  it  will  not 
wake ; 

The  fiower-girl's  prayer  to  buy  roses 
and  pinks, 

Held  out  in  the  smoke,  like  stars  by 
day; 

The  gin-door's  oath  that  hollowly 
chinks 

Guilt  upon  grief,  and  wrong  upon 
hate ; 

The  cabman's  cry  to  get  out  (jf  the 
way; 

The  dustman's  call  down  the  area- 
grate; 

The  young  maid's  jest,  and  the  old 
wife's  scold. 

The  haggling  talk  of  the  boys  at  a 
stall, 

The  fight  in  the  street  which  is  backed 
for  gold, 

The  plea  of  the  lawyers  in  Westmin- 
ster Hall; 

The  drop  on  the  stones  of  the  blind 
man's  staff 

As  he  trades  in  his  own  grief's  sacred- 
ness; 

The  brothel  shriek,  and  the  Newgate 
laugh; 

The  hum  upon  'Change,  and  the  or- 
gan's grinding; 

(The  grinder's  face  being  neverthe- 
less 

Dry  and  vacant  of  even  woe 

While  the  children's  hearts  are  leap- 
ing so 

At  the  merry  music's  winding); 

The  black-plumed  funeral's  creeping 
train 

Long  and   slow  (and   yet    they   will 

go 
As  fast  as  life,  though  it  hurry  and 
strain  !) 


f 


336 


THE   SOUL'S    TRAVELLING. 


Creeping  the  populous  bouses  through, 

And  nodding  their  plumes   at   either 
side,  — 

At   many   a  house  where   an   infant, 
new 

To  the  sunshiny  world,  has  just  strug- 
gled and  cried, — 

At    many   a    house    where    sitteth   a 
In-ide 

Trying  to-morrow's  coronals 

With  a  scarlet  blush  to-day: 
Slowly  creep  the  funerals. 

As   none   should  lu^ar  the  noise,  and 
say, 

"  The  living,  the  living,  must  go  away 
To  multiply  tlie  dead." 
Hark  !  an  upward  shout  is  sent: 

In  grave,  strong   joy  from   tower   to 
steeple 
The  bells  ring  out. 

The  trumpets  sound,  the  jjeople  sliout. 

The  young  queen  goes  to  her  parlia- 
ment; 

She    turneth    rouud    her    large   blue 
eyes. 

More  bright  with  childish  memories 

Than  royal  hope,  upon  the  people; 

On  either  side  she  bows  her  head 
Lowlj',  with  a  queenly  grace. 

And  smile  most  trusting-innocent, 

As  if  she  smiled  upon  her  mother; 

The  thousands  i)ress  before  each  other 
To  bless  her  to  her  face; 

And  booms  the  deep  majestic  voice 

Through    trump    and    drum,     "May 
the  queen  rejoice 
In  the  peoi)le's  liberties  ;  " 

III. 
I  dwell  amid  the  city, 
And  hear  the  flow  of  souls  in  a^t 
and  speech. 
For  pomp  or  trade,  for  merrymake  or 

folly: 
I  hear    the    confluence    and  sum   of 
each, 
And  that  is  melancholj- ! 
Thy  voice  is  a  complaint,  O  crowned 

city, 
The  blue  sky  covering  thee  like  God's 
great  pity. 

IV. 

O  Tjlue  sky  !  it  mindeth  me 
Of  places  wliere  I  usetl  to  see 
Its  vast  unbroken  circle  thrown 
From  the  far  pale-peaked  hill 
Out  to  the  last  verge  of  ocean, 


As  by  God's  arm  it  were  done 
Then   for  the   tirst   time,  with   the 

emotion 
Of  that  first  impulse  on  it  still. 
Oh  we  spirits  fly  at  will 
Faster  than  the  winged  steed 
Whereof  in  old  book  we  read. 
With  the  sunlight  foaming  back 
From  his  flanks  to  a  misty  wrack, 
And  his  nostril  reddening  jiroud 
As  he  breasteth  the  steep  thunder- 
cloud, — 
Smoother  than  Sabrina's  chair, 
Gliding  up  from  wave  to  air, 
While  she  smileth  debonair 
Yet  holy,  coldly  and  yet  brightly. 
Like     her     own     mooned     waters 
nightly, 
Through  her  dripi^iug  hair. 

V. 

Very  fast  and  smooth  we  fly. 
Spirits,  though  the  flesh  be  by: 
All  looks  feed  not  from  the  eye, 
Nor  all  hearings  from  the  ear: 
We  can  hearken  and  espy 
Without  either,  we  can  journey      . 
Bold  and  gay  as  knight  to  tourney; 
And,  though    we    wear    no    visor 

down 
To  dark  our  countenance,  the  foe 
Shall  never  chafe  us  as  we  go. 

VI. 

I  ana  gone  from  peopled  town  ! 
It  pcisseth  its  street-thunder  round 
My  body  which  yet  hears  no  sound ; 
For  now  another  sound,  another  ' 
Vision,  my  soul's  senses  have  — 
O'er  a  hundred  valleys  deep 
Where    th<i    hills'    green    shadows 

sleep, 
Scarce  kno\\u  because  the  valley- 
trees 
Cioss  those  uiili\nd  images. 
O'er  a  hundred  hills  each  other. 
Watching  to  the  ^  western  wave, 
I  have  tiavelled,  —  t  bave  found 
The      sile.^t,      lone,     remembered 
ground. 

VII. 

I  have  found  a  giassy  niche 
Hollowed  in  a  seaside-hill, 
As  if  the  ocean-grandeur,  which 
Is  aspectable  from  the  place. 
Had  struck  the  hill  as  with  0  mace, 
Sudden   and  cleaving.    You  might 
fill 


THE   SOUL'S    TRAVELLING. 


337 


That  little  nook  ^vith  tlie  little  cloud 
Which  sometimes  lietli  ]\y  the  mot)n 
To  beautify  a  night  of  June,  — 
A  cavelike  nook,  which,  opening  all 
To  the  wide  sea,  is  disallowed 
From    its  own  earth's   sweet   pas- 
toral ; 
Cavelike,  hut  roofless  overhead, 
And  made  of  verdant  banks  instead 
Of  any  rocks,  with  flowerets  spread 
Instead  of  spar  and  stalactite. 
Cowslips     and    daisies    gold     and 

white: 
Such  pretty  flowers  on  such  green 

sward. 
You  think  the  sea  they  look  towai'd 
Doth  serve  them  for  another  sky, 
As  "warm  and  blue  as  that  ou  high. 

vin. 

And  in  this  hollow  is  a  seat. 

And  when  you  shall  have  crept  to 

it, 
Slipping  down  the  banks  too  steep 
To  be  o'erbrowsed  by  the  sheep. 
Do  not  think  —  though  at  your  feet 
The  cliff's  disrupt  —  vou  shall  be- 
hold 
The    line  where   earth    and  ocean 

meet: 
You  sit  too  much  above  to  view 
The  solemn  confluence  of  the  two: 
You  can  hear  then:  as  they  greet, 
You  can  hear  that  evermore 
Distance-softened  noise  more  old 
Than    Nereid's    singing,    the    tide 

spent 
Joining  soft  issues  with  the  shore 
In  harmony  of  discontent; 
And  when  you  hearken  to  the  grave 
Lamenting  of  the  underwave, 
You  must  believe   in   earth's   com- 
munion, 
Albeit  you  witness  not  the  union. 

IX. 

Except  that  soixnd,  the  place  is  full 
Of  silences,  w'hicli,  when  you  cull 
By  any  word,  it  thrills  you  so, 
That  presently  you  let  them  grow- 
To  meditation's  fullest  length 
Across    your    soul,    with    a    soul's 

strength : 
And,  as  they  touch  your  soul,  they 

borrow 
Both  of  its  grandeur  and  its  sorrow, 
That  deathly  odor  which  the  clay 
Leaves  ou  its  deathlessuess  alway. 


Alway  !  alway  ?  must  this  be  ? 

Rapid  Soul  from  city  gone, 

Dost  thou  carry  inwardly 

What  doth  make  the  city's  moan  ? 

Must  this  deep  sigh  of  thine  own 

Haunt  thee  with  humanity  ? 

Green  visioned  banks  that  are  too 

steep 
To  be  o'erbrowsed  by  the  sheep, 
May  all  sad  thoughts  adown  you 

creep 
Without  a  shepherd  ?    Mighty  sea. 
Can  we  dwarf  thy  magnitude 
And  fit  it  to  our  straitcst  mood  ? 
O  fair,  fair  Nature,  are  we  thus 
Impotent  and  querulous 
Among  thy  workings  glorious. 
Wealth  and  sanctities,  that  still 
Leave  us  vacant  and  defiled, 
And  wailing  like  a  soft-kissed  child. 
Kissed  soft  against  his  will  ? 

XI. 

God,  God  ! 

With  a  child's  voice  I  cry, 

Weak,  sad,  confidingly  — 
God,  God  ! 
Thou    knowest,    eyelids    raised    not 

always  up 
Unto  thy  love  (as  none   of  ours  are) 

droop 
As  ours  o'er  many  a  tear; 
Thou  knowest,  though  thy  universe  is 

broad. 
Two  little  tears  suffice  to  cover  all: 
Tliou  knowest,  thou  who  art  so  j^rodi- 

gal 
Of    beauty,  we   are   oft  but   stricken 

deer 
Expiriug  in  the  woods,  that  care  for 

none 
Of  those  delightsome  flowers  thej^  die 

upon. 

XII. 

O  blissful  Mouth  which  breathed  the 
mournful  breath 

We   name  our  souls,   self-spoilt !  by 
that  strong  passion 

Which    paled    thee   once  with   sighs, 
by  that  strong  death 

Which  made  thee  once  unbreathing, 
from  the  wrack 

Themselves  have  called  around  them, 
call  them  back,  — 

Back  to  thee  in  continuous  aspira- 
tion ! 
For  here,  O  Lord, 


338 


TO   BETTINE. 


For  here  they  travel  vainly,  vainly 

pass 
From    city-pavement    to    untrodden 

sward 
Where  the  lark  finds  her  deep  nest  in 

the  grass 
Cold  with  the  earth's  last  dew.     Yea, 

very  vain 
The  greatest  speed  of  all  these  souls 

of  men 
Unless    they  travel    upward    to    the 

throne 
"Where    sittest    Thou    the    satisfying 

One, 
With  help  for  sins  and  holy  jierfect- 

ings 
For  all  requirements;  while  the  arch- 
angel, raising 
Unto  thy  face  his  full  ecstatic  gazing. 
Forgets  the  rush   and  rapture  of  his 

wings. 


TO   BETTINE. 

THE   CHILD-FRIEND   OF   GOETHE. 

"I  have  the  second-sight,  i'ioeih.e'."  —  Letters 
of  a  Child. 


I. 

Bettine,  friend  of  Goethe, 
Hadst  thou  the  second-sight  — 
Upturning  worship  and  delight 

With  such  a  loving  dutj' 
To  his  grand  face,  as  women  will, 
The    childhood    'neath  thine  eyelids 
still  ? 

II. 

—  Before  his  shrine  to  doom  thee. 
Using  the  same  child's  smile 

That  heaven  and  earth,  beheld  ere- 

while 
For  the  first  time,  won  from  thee 
Ere  star  and  flower  grew  dim  and 

dead 
Save  at  his  feet,  and  o'er  his  head  ? 

HI. 

—  Digging  thine  heart,  and  throw- 

ing 
Away  its  childhood's  gold, 
That  so  its  woman-depth  might  hold 
His  spirit's  overflowing  ? 


(For    surging    souls    no   worlds    can 

hound. 
Their    channel    in    the    heart    have 

found.) 

IV. 

O  child,  to  change  appointed. 
Thou  hadst  not  second-sight ! 
What  eyes  the  future  view  aright 

Unless  by  tears  anointed  ? 
Yea,  only  tears  themselves  can  show 
The  burning  ones  that  have  to  flow. 


O  woman,  deeply  loving. 
Thou  hadst  not  second-sight  ! 
The  star  is  very  high  and  l)right. 

And  none  can  see  it  moving. 
Love  looks  around,  below,  above, 
Yet  all  his  prophecy  is —  love. 


VI. 

The  bird  thj'  childhood's  playing 
Sent  onward  o'er  the  sea, 
Thy  dove  of  hope,  came  back  to  thee 

Without  a  leaf:  art  laying 
Its  Avet,  cold  wing  no  sun  can  dry, 

Still  in  thy  bosom  secretly  ? 


Our  Goethe's  friend,  Bettine, 
I  have  the  second-sight! 
The  stone  upon  his  grave  is  white. 

The  funeral  stone  between  ye; 
And  in  thy  mirror  thou  hast  viewed 
Some  change  as  hardly  understood. 


Where's      childhood  ?      where      is 
Goethe  ? 
The  tears  are  in  thine  eyes. 
Nay,  thou  slialt  yet  re-organize 

Thy  maidenhood  of  beauty 
In  his  own  glory,  which  is  smooth 
Of  wrinkles,  and  sul)lime  in  youth. 


IX. 

The  poet's  arms  have  wound  thee. 
He  breathes  upon  thy  brow. 
He  lifts  thee  upward  in  the  glow 

Of  his  great  genius  round  thee. 
The  childlike  i^oet  undefiled 
Preserving  evermore  The  Child. 


! 


i 


A   SEAS/BE    WALK. 


330 


MAN  AND  NATURE. 


A  SAD  man  on  a  summer  day 

Did  look  upon  the  earth,  and  say, — 

"  Purple  cloud  the  hilltop  binding; 

Folded  hills,  the  valleys  wind  in; 

Valleys,   with  fresh   streams   among 
you; 

Streams,  with  bosky  trees  along  you; 

Trees,  with  many  birds  and  blossoms; 

Birds,  with  musie-trembling  bosoms; 

Blossoms,  dropping  dews  that  wreathe 
you 

To  your  fellow-flowers  beneath  you; 

Flowers,  that  constellate  on  earth; 

Earth,  that  shakest  to  the  mirth 

Of  the  merry  Titan  ocean, 

All  his  shining  hair  in  motion!  — 

Why  am  I  thus  the  only  one 

"Who  can  be  dark  beneath  the  sun  ?  " 

But,  when  the  summer  day  was  past, 

He  looked  to  heaven,  and  smiled  at 
last, 

Self-answered  so.  — 

"  Because,  O  cloud, 

Pressing  with  thy  crumpled  shroud 

Heavily  on  mountain-top; 

Hills,  that  almost  seem  to  drop, 

Stricken  with  a  misty  death, 

To  the  valleys  underneath; 

Valleys,  sighing  with  the  torrent; 

Waters,  streaked  with  branches  hor- 
rent; 

Branchless  trees,  that  shake  your  head 

Wildly  o'er  your  blossoms  spread 

Where     the     common     flowers     are 
found ; 

Flowers,     with     foreheads     to     the 
ground ; 

Ground,  that  shriekest  wdiile  the  sea 

With  his  iron  sniiteth  thee, — 

I  am,  besides,  the  only  one 

Who  can  be  bright  vnthout  the  sun." 


•A  SEASIDE  WALK. 


We  walked  beside  the  sea, 
After  a  day  which  perished  silently 
Of  its  own  glory,   like   the  princess 

weird. 
Who,  combating  the  Geniixs,  scorched 

and  seared. 


Uttered  with  burning  breath,  "Ho! 

victory  !  " 
And  sank  adown,  a  heap  of  ashes  pale : 
So  runs  the  Arab  tale. 

II. 

The  sky  aljove  us  showed 
A  univei'sal  and  unmoving  cloud 
On  which  tlie  cliffs  permitted  us   to 

see 
Only  the  outline  of  their  majestj'. 
As  master-minds  when  gazed  at  by 

the  crowd; 
And,  shining  with  a  gloom,  the  water 

gray 
Swang  in  its  moon-taught  wav. 


Nor  moon  nor  stars  were  out; 
They  did  not  dare  to  tread  so  soon 

about, 
Though  trembling,  in  the  footsteps  of 

the  sun ; 
The    light   was    neither    night's    nor 

day's,  but  one 
Which,  life-like,  had  a  beauty  in  its 

doubt ; 
And  silence's  impassioned  breathings 

round 
Seemed  wandering  into  sound. 


IV. 

O  solemn-l)eating  heart 
Of  nature!     I    have  knowledge  that 

thou  art 
Bound  unto  man's  by  cords  he  cannot 

sever : 
And,  what  time  they  are  slackened 

by  him  ever. 
So  to  attest  his  own  supernal  part. 
Still  runneth  thy  vibration  fast  and 

strong 
The  slackened  cord  along; 

V. 

For  though  we  never  spoke 
Of  the  gray   water  and   the   shaded 

rock. 
Dark  wave  and  stone  unconsciously 

were  fused 
Into  the  plaintive  speaking  that  we 

used 
Of  absent  friends,  and  memories  uu- 

forsook; 
And,  had  we  seen  each  other's  face, 
'    we  had 
Seen  haply  each  M-as  sad. 


i 


340 


THE   SEA-MEW. 


THE  SEA-MEW. 

AFFECTIONATELY    ESTSCRIBED      TO 
M.   E.   H. 


How  joyously  the  young  sea-mew 
Lay  drefiiiiing  on  the  waters  hhie 
Whereon  our  little  bark  had  thrown 
A  little  shade,  the  only  one; 
But  shadows  ever  man  pursue. 


n. 
Familiar  with  the  waves,  and  free 
As  if  their  own  white  ioam  were  he, 
His  heart,  upon  the  heart  of  ocean, 
Lay,  learning  all  its  mystic  motion. 
And  throbbing  to  the  throbbing  sea. 

III. 

And  such  a  brightness  in  his  eye, 
As  if  the  ocean  and  the  sky 
Within  him  had  lit  u]i,  and  nurst 
A  soul  God  gave  him  not  at  tirst, 
To  comprehend  their  majesty. 


We  were  not  cruel,  yet  did  sunder 
His  white  wing  from  the  blue  waves 

under, 
And  bound  it,  while  his  fearless  eyes 
Shone  up  to  ours  in  calm  surprise. 
As  deeming  us  some  ocean  wonder. 


We  bore  our  ocean  bird  unto 
A  grassy  place  where  he  might  view 
The  flowers  that  courtesy  to  the  bees, 
The  waving  of  the  tall  green  trees, 
The  falling  of  the  silver  dew. 

VI. 

But  flowers  of  earth  were  pale  to  him 
Who    had    seen    the    rainbow  flshes 

swim ; 
And  when  earth's  dewaround  him  lay. 
He  thought  of  ocean's  winged  spray, 
And  his  eye  waxed  sad  and  dim. 

VII. 

The  green  trees  round  him  only  made 
A  prison  with  their  darksome  shade; 
And  drooped  hiswing,and  mournedhe 
For  his  own  boundless  glittering  sea. 
Albeit  he  knew  not  they  could  fade. 


VIII. 

Then  one  her  gladsome  face  did  bring, 
Her  gentle  voice's  murmuring. 
In  ocean's  stead  his  heart  to  move, 
And  teach  him  what  was  human  love: 
He   thougjit   it   a    strange,    mournful 
thing. 

IX. 

He  lay  down  in  his  grief  to  die 
(First  looking  to  the  sea-like  sky 
That  hath  no  waves),  because,  alas! 
Our  human  touch  did  on  him  pass, 
And,  with  our  touch,  our  agony. 


FELICIA   HEMANS. 


TO    L.    E.    L.,    REFERRING    TO    HER 
MONODY   ON   THE   POETESS. 


Thou  baj-crowned  living  one  that 
o'er  the  bay-crowMied  dead  art 
bowing, 

And  o'er  the  shadeless,  moveless  brow 
the  vital  shadow  throwing, 

And  o'er  the  sighless,  songless  lips  the 
wail  and  music  wedding. 

And  dropping  o'er  the  tranquil  eye?. 
the  tears  not  of  their  shed- 
ding !  — 

II. 

Take  music  from  the  silent  dead, 
whose  meaning  is  completer, 

Reserve  thy  tears  tor  living  brows, 
where  all  such  tears  are  raeeter, 

And  leave  the  violets  in  the  grass  to 
brighten  where  thou  treadest: 

No  flowers  for  her !  no  need  of  flow- 
ers, albeit  "bring  flowers," 
thou  saidest. 


III. 

Yes,  flowers  to  crown  the  "cup  and 

lute,"  since  both  may  come  to 

breaking; 
Or  flowers  to  greet  the  "  bride  "  —  the 

heart's  own  beating  works  its 

aching; 


<> 
[-•HI-»H 


L.  E.  l:s  last  question. 


341 


Or  flowers; to  soothe  the  "captive's" 
sight,  from  earth's  free  bosom 
gathered, 

Reminding  of  his  eartlily  hope,  then 
withering  as  it  withered; 


IV. 

But  bring  not  near  the  solemn  corse 

a  type  of  human  seeming; 
Lay  only  dust's  stern  verity  upon  the 

dust  undreaming: 
And,  while  the  calm  perpetual  stars 

shall  look  upon  it  solely, 
Her  sphered  soul  shall  look  on  them 

with  eyes  more  bright  and  holy. 

V. 

Nor  mourn,  O  living  one,  because  her 

part  in  life  was  mourning: 
Would  she  have  lost  the  poet's  fire 

for  anguish  of  the  burning  ? 
The  minstrel  harp,  for  the  strained 

string?    the  tripod,  for  the  af- 

flated  y 

Woe  ?  or  the  vision,  fon  those  tears  in 

which  it  shone  dilated  ? 


VI. 

Perhaps    she    shuddered    while    the 

world's  cold  hand  her  brow  was 

wreathing. 
But  never  wronged  that  mystic  breath 

which     breathed     in     all     her 

breathing, 
Which   drew  from  rockj-  earth  and 

man     abstractions     high     and 

moving,  — 
Beauty,  if  not  the  beautiful,  and  love, 

if  not  the  lovinsr. 


VII. 

Such  visionings  have  paled  in  sight: 

the  Saviour  she  descrieth, 
And   little   recks  irho   wreathed    the 

brow  which  on  his  bosom  lieth: 
The  whiteness  of  his  innocence  o'er 

all  her  garments  flowing. 
There  learneth  she  the  sweet  "  new 

song"   she   will   not   mourn   in 

knowing. 

VIII. 

Be   hamy,  crowned  and  living  one  ! 

ai'ld,  as  thy  dust  decayeth. 
May  thine  own  England  say  for  thee 

what  now  for  her  it  sayeth,  — 


"Albeit  softly  in  our  ears  her  silver 

song  was  ringing, 
The  footfall  of    her  parting  soul    is 

softer  than  her  singing." 


L.   E.   L.'S   LAST    QUES- 
TION. 


"  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  j-oii  ?  " 

Written  during  the  voyage  to'the  Cape. 


"  Do  yon  think  of  me  as  I  think  of 
you, 

My  friends,  my  friends  ?  "  *She  said  it 
from  the  sea. 

The  English  minstrel  in  her  min- 
strelsy. 

While,  under  brighter  skies  than  erst 
she  knew. 

Her  heart  grew  dark,  and  gi-ojied 
there  as  the  blind 

To  reach  across  the  waves  friends 
left  behind  — 

"Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of 


you?" 


II. 


It  seemed  not  much  to  ask  —  "  as  /  of 
yon  ?  " 

We  ail  do  ask  the  same:  no  eyelids 
cover 

Within  the  meekest  eyes  that  ques- 
tion over: 

And  little  in  the  world  the  loving 
do 

But  sit  (among  the  rocks  ?)  and  listen 
for 

The  echo  of  their  own  love  ever- 
more — 

"  Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of 


you 


9  " 


III. 


Love-learned  she  had  sung  of    love 

and  love, — 
And  like  a  child,  that,  sleeping  with 

dropt  head 
Upon  the  fairy-book  he  lately  read. 
Whatever    household    noises    round 

him  move, 


<> 
l-»HI-»H 


342 


CROWNED   AND    WEDDED 


Hears  in  his  dream  some  elfin  turbu- 
lence, — 
Even    so,   suggestive  to   lier  inward 

sense. 
All  sounds  of  life  assumed  one  tune 
of  love. 

IV. 

And  when  the  glory  of  her  dream 

withdrew. 
When   knightly   gestes    and    courtly 

pageantries 
Were  broken  in  her  visionary  eyes 
By  tears  the    solemn    seas    attested 

true, 
Forgetting  that  sweet  lute  beside  her 

hand. 
She  asked  not,  "Do  voii  jiraise   me, 

O  my  land?" 
But,  "Think  ye  of  me,  friends,  as  I 

of  you  ?  ' ' 

v. 

Hers  was  the  hand   that  played  for 

many  a  year 
Love's    silver    phrase    for    England, 

smooth  and  well. 
Would  Gpd,  her  heart's  more  inward 

oracle 
In  that  lone  moment  might  confirm 

her  dear ! 
For  when  her  questioned  friends  in 

agony 
Made      passionate     resjionse,     "  W^e 

think  of  thee," 
Her  place  was  in  the  tlust,  too  deep 

to  hear. 

VI. 

Could  she  not  wait  to  catch  their  an- 
swering breath  ? 

Was  she  content,  content,  with  ocean's 
sound, 

Which  dashed  its  mocking  infinite 
around 

One  thirsty  for  a  little  love?  —  be- 
neath 

Those  stars  content,  where  last  her 
song  had  gone,  — 

They  mute  and  cold  in  radiant  life, 
as  soon 

Their  singer  was  to  be  in  darksome 
death  ?  ^ 

VII. 

Bring  vour  vain  answers;  crv,  "We 

tiunk  of  thee!" 
How  think  ye  of  her  ?  —  wai-m  in  long 

ago 

'  Her  lyric  on  tlie  pol.ar  star  came  home 
with  her  latest  papers. 


Delights  ?  or  crowned  with  budding 
bays  ?    Not  so. 

None  smile,  and  none  are  crowned, 
where  lieth  she, 

With  all  her  visions  unfulfilled  save 
one, 

Her  childhood's,  of  the  palm-trees 
in  the  sun  — 

And  lo  !  their  shadow  on  her  sepul- 
chre ! 

VIII. 

"Do  ye  think  of  me  as  I  think  of 
you?"  — 

O  friends,  O  kindred,  O  dear  brother- 
hood 

Of  all  the  world !  what  are  we  that 
we  should 

For  covenants  of  long  affection  sue  ? 

Why  press  so  near  each  other  when 
the  touch 

Is  barred  by  graves  ?  Not  much,  and 
yet  too  much, 

Is  this,  "Think  of  me  as  I  think  of 
you." 

IX. 

But   while   on    mortal    lips    I    shape 

anew 
A  sigh  to  mortal  issues,  Aerily 
Above  the  unshaken  stars  that  see  us 

die 
A  vocal  pathos  rolls;    and   He  who 

drew 
All  life  from  dust,  and  for  all  tasted 

death. 
By  death  and  life  and  love,  appealing 

saith, 
"Do  you  think  of  me  as  I  think  of  you  ?  " 


CROWNED    AND 
WEDDED. 


When  last  before  her  people's  face  her 

own  fair  face  she  bent. 
Within  the   meek  projection  of  that 

shade  she  was  content 
To  erase  the  child-smile  from  her  lips, 

which  seemed  as  if  it  might 
Be  still  kept  holy  from  the  world  to 

childhood  still  in  sight  — 


CROWNED   AND    WEDDED. 


343 


To   erase   it  with    a    solemn   vow,    a 

l^rincely  vow  —  to  rule, 
A  priestly  vow  —  to  rule  by  graeo  of 

God  the  pitiful, 
A  very  godlike  vow  —  to  rule  in  right 

and  righteousness. 
And  with  the  law  and  for  the  land  — 

so  God  the  vower  bless  ! 


n. 

The  minster  was  alight  that  day,  but 

not  with  tire,  I  ween; 
And    long-drawn     glitterings     swept 

adown  that  mightly  aisled  scene ; 
The  2)riests  stood  stoled  in  their  pomp, 

the  sworded  chiefs  in  theirs. 
And  so  the  collared  knights,  and  so 

the  civii  niinisters, 
And  so  the  waiting  lords  and  dames, 

and  littlt:  pages  best 
At  holding  trains,  and  legates  so,  from 

countries  cast  and  west; 
So  alien  princes,  native    peers,   and 

high-born  ladies  bright. 
Along  whose  brows  the  Queen's,  now 

crownetl,    flashed    coronets    to 

light; 
And  so  the  j^eojile  at  the  gates  with 

priestly  hands  on  high, 
Which  bring  the  first  anointing  to  all 

legal  majesty; 
And  so  the  Dead,  who  lie  in  rows  be- 
neath the  minster  floor. 
There  verily  an  awful  state  maintain- 
ing evermore ; 
The  statesman  whose  clean  palm  will 

kiss  no  bribe,  whate'er  it  be. 
The  courtier  who  for  no  fair   queen 

will  rise  up  to  his  knee. 
The  court-dame  who  for  no  court-tire 

will  leave  her  shroud  behind. 
The  laureate,  who  no  courtlier  rhyme 

than  "  dust  to  dust  "  can  find, 
The   kings   and   queens   who    haAing 

made  that  a'ow  and  worn  thai; 

crown, 
Descended  unto  lower  thrones,   and 

darker,  deep  adown: 
Dieu  ct  moil  droit  — ■  what  is't  to  them  ? 

what  meaning  can  it  have  ?  — 
The  King  of  kings,  the  right  of  death 

—  God's    judgment     and     the 

grave. 
And  when  betwixt  the  quick  and  dead 

the     young     fair     queen    had 

vowed, 
The  living  shouted,  "  May  she  live  ! 

Victoria,  live  !  "  aloud: 


And,  as  the  loyal  shouts  went  up,  true 
spirits  prayed  between, 

"  The  blessings  hapjjy  monarchs  have 
be  thine,  O  crowned  queen  !  " 


m. 

But  now  before  her  2">eople's  face  she 

bendeth  hers  anew. 
And  calls  them,  while  she  vows,  to  be 

her  witness  thereunto. 
She  vowed  to  rule,  and  in  that  'oath 

her  childhood  put  away: 
She  doth  maintain  her  womanhood, 

in  vowing  love  to-day. 
O  lovely  lady  !  let  her  vow !  such  lips 

become  such  vows, 
And  fairer  goeth  bridal  wreath  than 

crown  with  vernal  brows. 
O  lovely  lady  !  let  her  vow  !  yea,  let 

her  vow  to  love  ! 
And  though  she  be  no  less  a  queen, 

with  purples  hung  above, 
The  pageant  of  a  court  behind,  the 

royal  kin  around, 
And  woven  gold  to  catch  her  looks 

turned  maidenly  to  ground, 
Yet  may  the  bride-veil  hide  from  her 

a  little  of  that  state. 
While  loving  hoi^es  for  retinues  about 

her  sweetness  wait. 
She  vows  to  love  who  vowed  to  rule 

—  (the  chosen  at  her  side) 
Let  none  say,  God  preserve  the  queen  ! 

but  rather.  Bless  tlie  bride  ! 
None  blow  the  trump,  none  bend  the 

knee,  none  violate  the  dream 
Wherein  no  monarch  l)ut  a  wife  she 

to  herself  may  seem. 
Or  if  ye  say,  Preserve  the  queen  !  O, 

breathe  it  inward  low  — 
She  is  a  ?co?n((H,  and  beloved!  and  'tis 

enough  but  so. 
Count  it   enough,  thou   noble   prince 

who  tak'st  her  by  the  hand, 
And  claimest  for  thj^  lady-love  our 

lady  of  the  land  I 
And  since.   Prince  Albert,  men  have 

called  thy  sjiirit  high  and  rare, 
And  true  to  truth'and  brave  for  truth 

as  some  at  Augsburg  were. 
We  charge  thee  by  thy  lofty  thoughts 

and  by  thy  poet-mind. 
Which  not  by  glory  and  degree  takes 

measure  of  mankind. 
Esteem  that  wedded  hand  less  dear 

for  sceptre  than  for  ring, 
And  hold  her  uncrowned  womanhood 

to  be  the  roval  thing. 


I    ^m  »  f  '  I 


344 


CROWNED   AND   BURIED. 


IV. 

And'uow,  upon  our  queen's  last  vow 

what  blessings  shall  we  pray  ? 
None  straitened  to  a  shallow  crown 

will  suit  our  lips  to-day: 
Behold,  they  must  be  free  as  love,  they 

must  be  broad  as  free, 
Even  to  the  borders  of  heaven's  light 

and  earth's  humanity, 
Long  live  she  !  —  send  up  loyal  shouts, 

and  true  hearts  pray  between, 
"  The  blessings  happy  peasants  have, 

be  thine,  O  crowned  queen  !  " 


CROWNED  AND  BURIED. 


Napoleon!  —  years     ago,     and    that 

great  word. 
Compact  of  human  breath  in  hate  and 

dread 
And  exultation,  skied  us  overhead,  — 
An  atmosphere  whose  lightning  was 

the  sword 
Scathing  the  cedars  of  the  world, — 

drawn  down 
In  burnings  by  the  metal  of  a  crown. 


11. 

Napoleon  !  —  nations,  while  they 
cursed  that  name. 

Shook  at  their  own  curse;  and  while 
others  bore 

Its  sound,  as  of  a  trumpet,  on  before, 

Brass-fronted  legions  justified  its 
fame  ; 

And  dying  men  on  trampled  battle- 
sods 

Near  their  last  silence  uttered  it  for 
God's. 

III. 

Napoleon! — sages,  with  high  fore- 
heads drooped, 

Did  use  it  for  a  problem;  children 
small 

Leapt  up  to  greet  it,  as  at  manhood's 
call; 

Priests  blessed  it  from  their  altars 
overstooped 


By  meek-eyed  Christs;   and   widows 

with  a  moan 
Spake  it,  when  questioned  why  they 

sate  alone. 

IV. 

That  name  consumed  the  silence  of 
the  snows 

In  Alpine  keeping,  holv  and  cloud- 
hid; 

The  mimic  eagles  dared  what  Natrire's 
did, 

And  over-rushed  her  mountainous  re- 
pose 

In  search  of  eyries;  and  the  Egyptian 
river 

Mingled  the  same  word  with  its  grand 
"  Forever." 


That  name  was  shouted  near  the  py- 
•  ramidal 

Nilotic  tombs,  whose  mummied  habit- 
ants, 

Packed  to  humanity's  significance, 

Motioned  it  back  with  stillness,  — 
shouts  as  idle 

As  hireling  artists'  work  of  myrrh  and 
spice 

Which  swathed  last  glories  round  the 
Ptolemies. 

VI. 

The  world's  face  changed  to  hear  it: 
kingly  men 

Came  down  in  chidden  babes'  bewil- 
derment 

From  autocratic  places,  each  content 

With  sprinkled  ashes  for  anointing; 
then 

The  people  laughed,  or  wondered  for 
the  nonce, 

To  see  one  throne  a  composite  of 
thrones. 

VII. 

Napoleon  !  —  even  the  torrid  vasti- 
tude 

Of  India  felt  in  throbbings  of  the  air 

That  name  which  scattered  by  disas- 
trous blare 

All  Europe's  bound-lines,  —  drawn 
afresh  in  blood. 

Napoleon  !  —  from  the  Russias  west  to 
Spain, 

And  Austria  trembled  till  ye  heard 
her  chain; 


I     ^  I  ■  I  ^m 


CROWNED   AND   BURIED. 


345 


vin. 

And  Germany  was  'ware;  and  Italy, 

Oblivious  of  old  lames,  — her  laurel- 
locked. 

High-ghosted  Cresars  passing  uniu- 
voked, — 

Did  crumble  her  own  ruins  with  her 
knee, 

To  serve  a  newer:  ay  !  but  French- 
men cast 

A  future  from  them  nobler  than  her 
past : 

IX. 

For  verily,  though  France  augustly 
rose 

With  that  raised  Name,  and  did  as- 
sume by  such 

The  jiurple  of  the  world,  none  gave  so 
much 

As  she  in  purchase  —  to  speak  plain, 
iu  loss  — 

Whose  hands,  toward  freedom 
stretched,  dropped  paralyzed 

To  wield  a  sword,  or  tit  an  under- 
sized 


King's  crown  to  a  great  man's  head. 
And  though  along 

Her  Paris  streets  did  float,  on  fre- 
quent streams 

Of  triumph,  pictured  or  emmarbled 
dreams 

Dreamt  right  by  genius  in  a  world 
gone  wrong. 

No  dream  of  all  so  won  was  fair  to 
see 

As  the  lost  vision  of  her  liberty. 

XI. 

Napoleon  !  —  'twas  a  high  name  lifted 

high : 
It  met  at  last  God's  thunder  sent  to 

clear 
Our  compassing  and  covering  atmos- 

jihere. 
And   open  a  clear  sight  beyond   the 

sky 
Of    supreme   empire;    this   of   earths 

was  done  — 
And  kings  crept  out  again  to  feel  the 

sun. 

XII. 

The  kings  crept  out:  the  peoples  sate 

at  home, 
And,  finding  the  long-invocated  peace 


(A  pall  embroidered  with  worn  im- 
ages 

Of  rights  divine)  too  scant  to  cover 
doom 

Such  as  they  suffered,  cursed  the  corn 
that  grew 

Rankly  to  bitter  bread  on  Waterloo. 

XIII. 

A  deep  gloom  centred  in  the  deep 
repose ; 

The  nations  stood  up  mute  to  count 
their  dead : 

And  he  who  owned  the  Name  which 
vibrated 

Through  silence,  trusting  to  his  no- 
blest foes 

When  earth  was  all  too  gray  for  chiv- 
alry. 

Died  of  their  mercies  'mid  the  desert 
sea. 

XIV. 

O  wild  St.  Helen  !  verj-  still  she  kejit 
him. 

With  a  green  willow  for  all  pyramid. 

Which  stirred  a  little  if  the  low  wind 
did, 

A  little  more,  if  pilgrims  overwept 
him. 

Disparting  the  lithe  boughs  to  see  the 
clay 

Which  seemed  to  cover  his  for  judg- 
ment-day. 


Nay,  not  so   long  !    France   kept   her 

old  affection 
As  deeply  as  the  sepulchre  the  corse; 
Until,  dilated  by  such  love's  remorse 
To  a  new  angel  of  the  resurrection, 
She  cried,  "  Behold,  thou  England  !  I 

would  have 
The  dead  whereof  thou  wottcst,  from 

that  grave." 

XVI. 

And  England  answered  in  tiie  cour- 
tesy 

Which,  ancient  foes  turned  lovers, 
may  befit,  — 

"  Take  back  thy  dead  !  and,  when 
thou  buriest  it, 

Throw  in  all  former  strifes  "twixtthee 
and  me." 

Amen,  mine  England  !  'tis  a  courte- 
ous claim: 

But  ask  a  little  room  too — for  thy 
shame  ! 


34G 


CROWNED   AND   BURIED. 


XVII. 

Because  it  was  not  well,  it  was  not 
well, 

Nor  tuneful  with  thy  lofty-chanted 
part 

Among  the  Oceanides,  —  that  heart 

To  bind  and  bare  and  vex  with  vul- 
ture fell. 

I  would,  my  noble  England,  men 
might  seek 

All  crimson  stains  upon  thy  breast  — 
not  cheek  ! 

XVIII. 

I  would  that  hostile  fleets  had  scarred 
Torbay, 

Instead  of  the  lone  ship  which  waited 
moored 

Until  thj'  princely  purpose  was  as- 
sured. 

Then  left  a  shadow,  not  to  jiass 
away  — 

Not  for  to-night's  moon,  nor  to-mor- 
row's sun: 

Green  watching  hills,  ya  witnessed 
what  was  done  !  i 

XIX. 

But  since  it  toas  done,  —  in  sepulchral 
dust 

We  fain  would  pay  back  something  of 
our  debt 

To  France,  if  not  to  honor,  and  for- 
get 

How  through  much  fear  we  falsified 
Ihe  trust 

Of  a  fallen  foe  and  exile.     "We  return 

Orestes       Electra  —  in  his  urn. 

XX. 

A  little  urn^ — -a  little  dust  inside, 
Which    once    outbalanced   the  large 

earth,  albeit 
To-day  a  four-years'  child  might  carry 

it 
Sleek-browed  and  snnling,  "  Let  the 

burden  'bide !  " 
Orestes  to  Electra  !  —  O  fair  town 
Of  Paris,  how  the  wild  tears  will  run 

down 

XXI, 

And  run  l>ack  in  the  chariot-marks  of 

time. 
When  all  the  people  shall  come  forth 

to  meet 

1  Writtuii  at  Torquay. 


The  passive  victor,  death-still  in  the 

street 
He  rode  througli  'mid  the  shouting 

and  bell-chime, 
And    martial     music,    under    eagles 

which 
Dyed  their  rapacious   beaks  at  Aus- 

terlitz  ! 

XXII. 

Napoleon! — he    hath    come     again, 

/  borne  home 

J/Upon  the   jwijular  ebbing  lieart,  —  a 
'i  sea 

Which  gathers  its  own  wrecks  per- 
petually, 

^lajestically  moaning.  Give  him 
room  ! 

Room  for  the  dead  in  Paris  !  welcome 
solemn 

And  grave-deep  'neath  the  cannon- 
moulded  column  !  i 

XXIII. 

There,  weapon-spent  and  warrior- 
spent,  may  rest 

From  roar  of  fields,  —  jirovided  Jupi- 
ter 

Dare  trust  Saturnus  to  lie  down  so 
near 

His  bolts  1  —  and  this  he  may ;  for, 
dispossessed 

Of  any  godship  lies  the  godlike  arm  — 

The  goat  Jove  sucked  as  likely  to  do 
harm. 

XXIV. 

And  yet  .  .  .  Napoleon  !  —  the  re- 
covered name 

Shakes  the  old  casements  of  the 
world;  and  we 

Look  out  upon  the  passing  pageantry. 

Attesting  that  the  Dead  makes  good 
his  claim 

To  a  French  grave, — another  king- 
dom won. 

The  last,  of  few  spans  —  by  Napole- 
on. 

XXV. 

Blood  fell  like  dew  beneath  his  sun- 
rise—  sooth  ! 

But  glittered  dew-like  in  the  cove- 
nanted 

Meridian  light.  He  was  a  desjiot  — 
granted  ! 

1  It  was  the  first  intention    to    bury  liini 
inidur  tlie  column. 


TO   FLUSH  MY  DOG. 


347 


But  the  auTos  of  his  autocratic  moutli 
Said  yea  i'  the  people's   Frencli:   he 

magnified 
The  image  of  the  freedom  he  denied. 

XXVI. 

And  if  they  asked  for  rights,  he  made 

reply, 
"Ye    have     my    glory!" — and     so, 

drawing  round  them 
His  ample  jiurple,  glorifietl  and  bound 

them 
In  an  embrace  that  seemed  identity. 
He  ruled  them  like  a  tyrant  —  true  ! 

but  none 
^Were    ruled    like    slaves:    each    felt 

Nai^oleon. 

XXVII. 

I  do  not  praise  this  man:   the  man 

^vas  flawed 
For   Adam  —  much   more,    Christ!  — 

his  knee  unbent. 
His  hand  unclean,  his  aspiration  i)ent 
"VVithin    a    sword-sweep  —  pshaw!  — 

but,  since  he  had 
The  genius  to  be  loved,  why,  let  him 
'  have 

V^he    justice    to    be    honored    in    his 

grave. 

XXVUI. 

I  think  this  nation's  tears  thus  poured 
together 

Better  than  shouts.  I  think  this  fu- 
neral 

Grander  than  crownings,  though  a 
pope  bless  all. 

I  think  this  grave  stronger  than 
thrones.     But,  whether 

The  crowned  Napoleon  or  the  buried 
clay 

Be  worthier,  I  discern  not:  angels 
mav. 


TO  FLUSH  MY  DOG. 


Loving  friend,  the  gift  of  one 
"Who  her  own  true  faith  has  run 
Through  thy  lower  nature, i 

1  This  doi?  was  the  sjift  of  my  dear  and 
admired  friend.  Miss  Mitford,  and  belongs 
to  the  beautiful  race  she  has  rendered  cele- 
brated among  EngUsh  and  American  read- 


Be  my  benediction  said 
With  my  hand  upon  thy  head, 
Gentle  fellow-creatiu-e  ! 

n. 

Like  a  lady's  ringlets  brown, 
Flow  thy  silken  ears  adown 

Either  side  demurely 
Of  tliy  silver-suited  breast, 
Shining  out  from  all  the  rest 

Of  thy  body  purely. 

ni. 

Darkly  brown  thy  body  is. 
Till  the  sunshine  striking  this 

Alchemize  its  duluess, 
When  the  sleek  curls  manifold 
Flash  all  over  into  gold 

With  a  burnished  fulness. 

IV. 

LTnderneath  my  stroking  hand. 
Startled  eyes  of  hazel  bland  \ 

Kindling,  growing  larger. 
Up  thou  leajiest  with  a  spring, 
Full  of  prank  and  curvetting, 

Leaping  like  a  cliarger. 


Leap  !  thy  broad  tail  waves  a  light, 
Leap  !  thy  slender  feet  are  bright. 

Canopied  in  fringes; 
Leap  !  those  tasselled  ears  of  thine 
Flicker  strangely,  fair  and  fine 

Down  their  golden  inches. 

VI. 

Yet,  my  pretty  sportive  friend. 
Little  is't  to  such  an  end 

Tliat  I  praise  thy  rareness: 
Other  dogs  may  be  thy  jieers 
Haply  in  these  drooping  ears 

And  this  glossy  fairness. 

VII.  . 

But  of  thee  it  shall  be  said,  \ 

This  dog  v.-atched  beside  a  bed       \ 

Day  and  night  unweary,  —  * 

Watched  within  a  curtained  room 
Where  no  sunbeam  brake  the  gloom, 

Round  the  sick  and  dreary. 

ers.  The  Flushes  have  their  laurels  as  well 
as  the  Csesars,  the  chief  diti'ercnec  (at  least 
the  very  head  and  front  of  it)  consisting, 
perhaps,  in  the  bald  head  of  the  hitter  luider 
the  crown.     1344. 


348 


TO   FLUSH  MY  DOG. 


\ 


VIII. 

Roses,  gathered  for  a  vase, 
In  that  chamber  died  apace. 

Beam  and  breeze  resigning: 
This  dog  only  waited  on, 
Knowing,  that,  wlien  light  is  gone, 

Love  remains  for  shining. 


IX. 

Other  dogs  in  thymy  dew 
Tracked    the    hares,    and    followed 
through 

Sunny  moor  or  meadow : 
This  dog  only  crept  and  crept 
Next  a  languid  cheek  that  slept, 

Sharing  in  the  shadow. 


Other  dogs  of  loyal  cheer 
Bounded  at  the  whistle  clear, 

Up  the  woodside  hieing: 
This  dog  only  watched  in  reach 
Of  a  faintly  uttered  speech. 

Or  a  louder  sighing. 


XI. 

And  if  one  or  two  quick  tears 
DropiJed  upon  his  glossy  ears, 

Or  a  sigh  came  double, 
Up  he  sprang  in  eager  haste. 
Fawning,  fondling,  breathing  fast, 

In  a  tender  trouble. 


XII. 

And  this  dog  was  satisfied 

If  a  pale,  thin  hand  would  glide 

Down  his  dewlaps  sloping,  — 
Which  he  pushed  his  nose  within, 
After,  —  platforming  his  chin 

On  the  i^alm  left  open. 

XIII. 

This  dog,  if  a  friendly  voice 
Call  him  now  to  blither  choice 

Than  such  chamber-keeping, 
"  Come  out !  "  praying  from  the  door, 
Presseth  backward  as  before, 

Up  against  me  leaping. 


XIV. 

Therefore  to  this  dog  will  I, 
Tenderly  not  scornfully, 
Render  praise  and  favor: 


With  my  hand  upon  his  head. 
Is  my  benediction  said 
Therefore  and  forever. 


XV. 

And  because  he  loves  me  so, 
Better  than  his  kind  will  do 

Often  man  or  woman. 
Give  I  back  more  love  again 
Than  dogs  often  take  of  men, 

Leaning  from  my  human. 


XVI. 

Blessings  on  thee,  dog  of  mine, 
Pretty  collai's  make  thee  line. 

Sugared  milk  make  fat  thee  ! 
Pleasures  wag  on  in  thy  tail. 
Hands  of  gentle  motion  fail 

Nevermore  to  pat  thee  ! 


XVII. 

Downy  pillow  take  thy  head. 
Silken  coverlet  bestead. 

Sunshine  help  thy  sleei^ing  ! 
No  fly's  buzzing  wake  thee  up, 
No  man  break  thy  purple  cup 

Set  for  drinking  deep  in  ! 


xvni. 
Whiskered  cats  aroynted  flee, 
Sturdy  stoppers  keep  from  thee 

Cologne  distillations; 
Nuts  lie  in  thy  path  for  stones, 
And  thy  feast-day  macaroons 

Turn  "to  daily  rations  ! 


XIX. 

Mock  I  thee,  in  wishing  weal  ? 
Tears  are  in  my  eyes  to  feel 

Thou  art  made  so  straitly: 
Blessings  need  must  straiten  too, 
Little  canst  thou  joy  or  do, 

Thou  who  lovest  greatly. 


XX. 

Yet  he  blessed  to  the  height 
Of  all  good  and  all  delight 

Pervious  to  thy  nature ; 
Only  loved  beyond  that  line, 
With  a  love  that  answers  thine, 

Loving  fellow-creature  I 


a  > 

S  2. 

V  n 

1  = 

>3  3 


n    3 

3 


^ 


Or    r         ",-    >?ifc 


THE   DESERTED    GARDEN. 


349 


THE  DESERTED  GAIIDEN. 


I  Mixi>  me,  in  the  days  departed, 
How  often  underneath  the  sun 
With  chiklish  bounds  I  used  to  run 
To  a  garden  long  deserted. 

The   beds  and  wallvs  were  A'anished 

quite; 
And  whereso'er  had  struck  the  spade, 
The  greenest  grasses  Nature  laid 
To  sanctify  her  right. 

I  called  the  place  my  wilderness. 
For  no  one  entered  there  but  I: 
The  sheep  looked  in  the  grass  to  espy, 
And  passed  it  ne'ertheless. 

The  trees  were  interwoven  wild, 
And     spread     their    boughs     enough 

about 
To  keep  both  sheep  and  shepherd  out, 
But  not  a  happy  child. 

Adventurous  joy  it  was  for  me  ! 
I  crept  beneath  the  l)Oughs,  and  found 
A  circle  smooth  of  mossy  ground 
Beneath  a  X)oplar-tree. 

Old  garden  rose-trees  hedged  it  in, 
Bedropt  with  roses  waxen-white 
"Well  satisfied  with  dew  and  light, 
-    And  careless  to  be  seen. 

Long  years  ago,  it  might  befall, 
"When    all    the    garden-flowers    were 

trim. 
The  grave  old  gardener  inided  him 
On  these  the  most  of  all 

Some  lady,  stately  overmuch. 
Here  moving  with  a  silken  noise, 
Has  blushed  Ijeside  them  at  the  voice 
That  likened  lier  to  such. 

And  these,  to  make  a  diadem. 

She    often    may   have    plucked    and 

twined. 
Half-smiling  as  it  came  to  mind 
That  few  would  look  at  them. 

Oh,  little  thought  that  lady  proud, 
A  child  would  watch   her  fair  white 

rose. 
When  buried  lay  her  whiter  brows. 
And  silk  was  changed  for  shroud  ! 


that  gardener  (full   of 
and     simple 


Nor  thought 

scorns 
For     men     unlearned 

jjhrase), 

A  child  would  bring  it  all  its  praise 
By  creeping  through  the  thorns. 

To  me  upon  my  low  moss  seat, 
Though  never  a  dream  the  roses  sent 
Of  science  or  love's  compliment, 
I  ween  they  smelt  as  sweet. 

It  did  not  move  my  grief  to  see 
The  trace  of  human  step  departed: 
Because  the  garden  was  deserted. 
The  blither  place  for  me. 

Friends,  blame  me  not !  anari-ow  ken 
Has   childhood    'twixt    the   sun    and 

sward: 
We  draw  the  moral  afterward, 
We  feel  the  gladness  then. 

And  gladdest  hours  for  me  did  glide 
In  silence  at  the  rose-tree  wall: 
A  thrush  made  gladness  musical 
Upon  the  other  side. 

Nor  he  nor  I  did  e'er  incline 
To  peck  or  pluck  the  blossoms  white: 
How  should  I  know  but  roses  might 
Lead  lives  as  glad  as  mine  ? 

To  make  my  hermit-home  complete, 
I  brought  clear  water  from  the  spring 
Praised  in  its  own  low  murmuring, 

And  cresses  glossy  wet. 

And  so,  I  thought,  my  likeness  grew 
(Without  the  mehmcholy  tale) 
To  "  gentle  hermit  of  the  dale," 
And  Angelina  too. 

For  oft  I  read  within  my  nook 
Such  minstrel  stories,  till  the  breeze 
Made  sounds  poetic  in  the  trees, 
And  then  I  shut  the  book. 

If  I  shut  this  wherein  I  write, 
I  hear  no  more  the  wind  athwart 
Those  trees,   nor  feel    that    childish 
heart 
Delighting  in  delight. 

My  childhood  from  my  life  is  parted. 
My  footstep    from    the    moss   which 

drew 
Its  fairy  circle  round:  anew 
The  garden  is  deserted. 


350 


MY   DOVES. 


Another  tlirnsh  may  there  reliearse 
The  madrigals  which  sweetest  are: 
No  more  for  me  !  myself  afar 
Do  sing  a  sadder  verse. 

Ah  me,  ah  me  !  when  erst  I  lay 

In     that     child's-nest     so     greenly 

wrought, 
I  laughed  unto  myself,  and  thought 
"  The  time  will  pass  away." 

And  still  I  laugl'ed,  and  did  not  fear 
But  that,  whene'er  was  passed  away 
The  childish  time,  some  hapjiier  play 
My  womanhood  would  cheer. 

I  knew  the  time  would  pass  away. 
And  yet,  beside  the  rose-tree  wall. 
Dear  God,  how  seldom,  if  at  all. 
Did  I  look  lip  to  pray  ! 

The  time  is  past;  and  now  that  grows 
The  cypress  high  among  the  trees. 
And  I  behold  white  sepulchres, 
As  well  as  the  white  rose,  — 

When  graver,  meeker  thoughts  are 

given. 
And  I  have  learnt  to  lift  my  face, 
Reminded  how  earth's  greenest  place 
The  color  draws  from  heaven,  — 

It  something  saith  for  earthly  pain. 
But  more  for  heavenly  promise  free. 
That  I  who  was,  would  shrink  to  be 
That  happy  child  again. 


MY  DOVES. 


■  O  Weisheit !  l)u  red'st  wie  eiuc  Taulie!  " 

Goethe. 


^Iy  little  doves  have  left  a  nest 

Upon  an  Indian  tree, 
Whose  leaves  fantastic  take  theirrest 

Or  motion  from  the  sea : 
For  ever  there  the  sea-winds  go 
With  sunlit  paces  to  and  fro. 

The  tropic  flowers  looked  up  to  it. 
The  tropic  stars  looked  down; 

And  there  my  little  doves  did  sit,, 
W^ith  feathers  softly  brown. 


And  glittering  eyes  that  showed 

their  right 
To  general  nature's  deep  delight. 

And  CTod  them  taught  at  every  close 
Of  murmuring  waves  beyond 

And  green  leaves  round,  to  interjioRe 
Their  choral  voices  fond. 

Interpreting  that  love  must  be 

The  meaning  of  the  earth  and  sea. 

Fit  ministers  !     Of  living  loves 
Theirs  hath  the  calmest  fashion. 

Their  living  voice  the  likest  moves 
To  lifeless  intonation 

The  lovely  monotone  of  springs 

And  winds  and  such  insensate  things. 

My  little  doves  were  ta'en  away 
From  that  glad  nest  of  theirs. 

Across  an  ocean  rolling  gray, 
And  temiiest-clouded  airs,  — 

My  little  doves,  who  lately  knew 

The   sky  and  wave   by  warmth    and 
blue. 

And  now,  within  the  citj-  prison, 
In  mist  and  chillness  pent. 

With  sudden  upward  look  they  listen 
For  sounds  of  past  content,  — 

For  lajjse  of  water,  swell  of  breeze, 

Or  nut-fruit  falling  from  the  trees. 

The  stir  without  the  glow  of  passion, 

The  triumph  of  the  mart. 
The  gold  and  silver  as  they  clash  on 

Man's  cold  metallic  heart. 
The  roar  of  wheels,  the  cry  for  bread: 
These  only  sounds  are  heard  instead. 

Yet  still,  as  on  my  human  hand 
Their  fearless  heads  they  lean. 

And  almost  seem  to  understand 
What  human  musings  mean, 

(Their    eyes    with    such    a    plaintive 
shine 

Are  fastened  upwardly  to  mine  !) 

Soft  falls  their  chant  as  on  the  nest 

Beneath  the  sunny  zone; 
For  love  that  stirred  it  in  their  breast 

Has  not  aweary  grown. 
And  'neath  the  city's  shade  can  keep 
The  well  of  music  clear  and  deep. 

And  love  that  keeps  the  music  fills 

With  pastoral  memories ; 
All  echoings  from  out  the  hills, 


-I     ^m  I  ■-« 


HECTOR   IN   THE   GARDEN. 


351 


All  droppings  from  the  skies. 
All  flowings  from  the  wave  ami  wind, 
Remembered  in  their  chant,  1  find. 

So  teach  ye  me  the  wisest  part, 

My  little  doves  !  to  move 
Along  the  city-ways  with  heart 

Assured  by  holy  love, 
And  vocal  with  such  songs  as  own 
A  fountain  to  the  world  unknown. 

'Twas     hard     to     sing     by     Babel's 
stream  — 

More  hard  in  Babel's  street; 
But  if  the  soulless  creatures  deem 

Their  music  not  unmeet 
For  sunless  walls,  let  us  begin, 
"Who  wear  immortal  wings  within  ! 

To  me,  fair  memories  belong 
Of  scenes  that  used  to  bless, 

For  no  regret,  but  present  song 
And  lasting  thankfulness, 

And  very  soon  to  break  away. 

Like  types,  in  purer  things  thau  they. 

I  will  have  hopes  that  cannot  fade, 
For  flowers  the  valley  yields; 

I  will  have  humble  thoughts  instead 
Of  silent,  dewy  fields: 

My  sjiirit  and  my  God  shall  be 

My  seaward  hill,  my  boundless  sea. 


HECTOR  IN  THE  GAR- 
DEN. 


Nine  years  old!     The  first  of  any 
Seem  the  happiest  years  that  come; 
Yet  when  J  was  nine,  I  said 
No  such  word  !  I  thought  instead 

That  the  Greeks  had  used  as  many 
In  besieging  Ilium. 

II. 
Nine  green  years  had  scarcely  brought 
me 
To  my  childhood's  haunted  spring: 
I  had  life,  like  dowers  and  bees. 
In  betwixt  the  country  trees; 
And  the  sun  the  pleasure  taught  me 
Which  he  teacheth  every  thing. 


iir. 

If  the  rain  fell,  there  was  sorrow. 
Little  heail  leant  on  the  pane, 
Little  finger  drawing  down  it 
The  long  trailing  drops  upon  it, 

And  the  "  Eain,  rain,  come  to-mor- 
row," 
Said  for  charm  against  the  rain. 

IV. 

Such  a  charm  was  right  Canidian. 

Though  you  meet  it  with  a  jeer: 

If  I  said  it  long  enough. 

Then  the  rain  hununed  dimly  off, 
And  the  thrush  with  his  pure  Lydian 

Was  left  only  to  the  ear; 


And  the  sun  and  I  together 
Went  a-rushing  out  of  doors: 
We  our  tender  s])irits  drew 
Over  hill  and  dale  in  view, 

Glimmering  hither,  glimmering  thith- 
er. 
In  the  footsteps  of  the  showers. 

VI. 

Underneath  the  chestnuts  dripping. 
Through  the  grasses  wet  and  fair. 
Straight  I  sought  my  garden-ground, 
With  the  laurel  on  the  mound, 

And  the  pear-tree  oversweeping 
A  side-shadow  of  green  air. 

VII. 

In  the  garden  lay  supinely 

A  huge  giant  wrought  of  spade; 

Arms   and   legs   were   stretched   at 
length 

In  a  passive  giant  strength,— 
The  fine  meadow-turf,  cut  finely. 

Round  them  laid  and  interlaid. 

VIII. 

Call  him  Hector,  son  of  Priam  ! 

Such  his  title  and  degree. 

With  my  rake  I  smoothed  his  brow, 

Both  his  cheeks  I  weeded  through ; 
But  a  rhymer  such  as  I  am, 

Scarce  can  sing  his  dignity. 

IX. 

Eyes  of  gentianellas  azure. 

Staling,  winking  at  the  skies; 

Nose  of  gilh'tlowers  and  box; 

Scented  grasses  put  for  locks, 
Which  a  little  breeze  at  pleasure 

Set  a-waving  round  his  eyes: 


352 


SLEEPING   AND    WATCHING. 


X. 

Brazen  lielin  of  daffodillies, 
Wi^h  a  glitter  toward  the  light; 
Purple  violets  for  the  mouth, 
Breathing  jierfumes  west  and  south ; 

And  a  sword  of  Hashing  lilies, 
Holden  ready  for  the  rtght: 

XI. 

And  a  breastplate  made  of  daisies, 
Closely  fitting,  leaf  on  leaf; 
Periwinkles  interlaced 
Drawn  for  belt  about  the  waist; 

While    the    brown    bees,    hninming 
praises, 
Shot  their  arrows  round  the  eliief. 

xir. 

And  who  knows  (I  sometimes  won- 
dered,) 
If  the  disembodied  soul 
Of  old  Hector  once  of  Troy 
Might  not  take  a  dreary  joy 

Here  to  enter  —  if  it  thundered, 
Rolling  up  the  thunder-roll  ? 

XIII. 

Rolling  this  way  from  Troy-ruin, 
In  tins  body  rude  and  rife 
Just  to  enter,  and  take  rest 
'Neath  the  daisies  of  the  breast  — 

They,  with  tender  roots,  Renewing 
His  heroic  heart  to  life  ? 


XIV. 

know 


I     sometimes 


"Who     could 
started 

At  a  motion  or  a  sound  ! 

Did  his  mouth  speak,  naming  Troy 

"With  an  ototototoi  ? 
Did  the  pulse  of  the  Strong-bearted 

ISIake  the  daisies  tremble  round  ? 

XV. 

It  was  bard  to  answer,  often; 
But  the  birds  sang  in  the  tree, 
But  the  little  birds  sang  liold 
In  the  pear-tree  green  and  old, 

And  my  terror  seemed  to  soften 
Through  the  courage  of  their  glee. 

XVI. 

Oh  tb(!  birds,  the  ti-ee,  the  rnddy 
And    white     blossoms    sleek    with 

rain  ! 
Oh,  my  garden  rich  with  jiansies  ! 


Oh,     my     childhood's     brigbt    ro- 
mances ! 
All  revive,  like  Hector's  body, 
And  I  see  them  stir  again. 


XVII. 

And  despite  life's  changes,  chances, 
And  despite  the  deatTibell's  toll, 
They  press  on  me  in  full  seeming: 
Help,  some  angel  !  stay  this  dream- 
ing ! 
As  the  birds  sang  in  the  branches. 
Sing   God's    patience    through    my 
soul  ! 


XVIII. 

That  no  dreamer,  no  neglecter 
Of  the  present's  work  unsped, 
I  may  wake  np  and  be  doing, 
Life's  heroic  ends  pursuing. 

Though  my  past  is  dead  as  Hector, 
And  though  Hector  is  twice  dead 


SLEEPING  AND  AYATCIl- 
ING. 


Sleep  on,  baby,  on  the  floor, 

Tired  of  all  the  playing; 
Sleep  with  smile  the  sweeter  for 

That  you  dropped  away  in. 
On  your  curls'  full  roundness  stand 

Golden  lights  serenely; 
One  cheek  pushed  out  by  the  hand 

Folds  the  dimjile  inly: 
Little  head  and  little  foot. 

Heavy  laid  for  pleasure, 
Underneath  the  lids  lialf-shnt. 

Slants  the  shining  azure. 
Open-soul  in  noonday  sun, 

So  you  lie  and  slumber: 
Nothing  evil  having  done, 

Nothing  can  encnmber. 


II. 

I  who  cannot  sleep  as  well, 
Shall  I  sigh  to  view  you  ? 

Or  sigh  further  to  foretell 
All  that  maj'  nndo  you  ? 


SOUNDS. 


353 


Xay,  keep  smiling,  little  child, 

Ere  the  sorrow  neareth: 
I  will  smile  too:  patience  mild 

Pleasure's  token  weareth. 
Nay,  keep  sleeping  before  loss: 

Ishall  sleep  though  losing  — 
As  by  cradle,  so  by  cross. 

Sure  is  the  reposing. 

III. 

And  God  knows  who  sees  us  twain, 

Child  at  childish  leisure, 
I  am  near  as  tired  of  pain 

As  you  seem  of  pleasvire. 
Very  soon  too,  by  his  grace 

Gently  wrapt  around  me. 
Shall  I  show  as  calm  a  face. 

Shall  I  sleep  as  soundly,  — 
Differing  in  this,  that  you 

Clasp  your  playthings,  sleeping, 
"While  my  hand  shall  drop  the  few 

Given  to  my  keeping; 
Differing  in  this,  that  I 

Sleeping  shall  be  colder. 
And  in  waking  presently, 

Brighter  to  beholder; 
Differing  in  this  beside 

(Sleeper,  have  you  heard  me  ? 
Do  you  move,  and  open  wide 

Eyes  of  wonder  toward  me  ?)  — 
That  while  you  I  thus  recall 

From  your  sleep,  I  solely, 
Me  from  mine  an  angel  shall, 

"With  reveille  holv. 


SOUNDS. 


HKOvtra?  r)  ovk  rjKovfra^  ; 


^T-SCHYI.l'S. 


I. 

Harken,  barken  ! 
The  rapid  river  carrieth 
]Many  noises  underneath 
The  hoary  ocean : 
\       Teaching  his  solemnity 

Sounds  of  inland  life  and  glee 
Learnt  beside  the  waving  tree 
When  the  winds  in  summer  prank 
Toss  the  shades  from  bank  to  bank, 
And  the  quick  rains,  in  emotion 
Which  rather  gladdens    earth    than 
grieves, 


Count  and  visibly  rehearse 
The  pulses  of  the  \iniverse 
Upon  the  summer  leaves  — 
Learnt  among  the  lilies  straight. 
When  they  bow  them  to  tlie  weight 
Of  many  bees  whose  hidden  hum 
Seemeth  from  themselves  to  come  — 
Learnt  among  the  grasses  green 
Where  tlie  rustling  mice  are  seen 
By  the  gleaming,  as  they  run. 
Of  their  quick  eyes  in  the  sun ; 
And  lazy  sheep  are  browsing  through 
With  iheir  noses  trailed  in  dew; 
And  the  squirrel  leaps  adown. 
Holding  fast  the  filbert  brown; 
And  the  lark,  with  more  of  mirth 
In  his  song  than  suits  the  earth, 
Droppeth  some  in  soaring  high. 
To  pour  the  rest  out  in  the  sky; 
While  the  woodland  doves  apart 
In  the  cojise's  leafy  heart, 
Solitary,  not  ascetic. 
Hidden  and  yet  vocal,  seem 
Joining  in  a  lovely  psalm, 
Man's  despondence,  nature's  calm. 
Half  mystical  and  half  jiathetic. 
Like  a  singing  in  a  dream. i 
All  these  sounds  the  river  telleth. 
Softened  to  an  undertone 
Which  ever  and  auon  he  swelleth 
By  a  burden  of  his  own, 

In  the  ocean's  ear: 
Ay,  and  ocean  seems  to  hear 
With  an  inward  gentle  scorn, 
Smiling  to  his  caverns  worn. 


n. 

Harken,  barken  ! 
The  child  is  shouting  at  his  j^lay 
Just  in  the  tramping  funeral's  way; 
The  widow  moans  as  she  turns  aside 
To  shun  the  face    of    the    blushing 
bride, 

I  "  While  fJoatin;:  up  bright  fonns  ideal, 

Slistress  or  iViemi,  ;iroiind  me  stream  ; 
Half  sense-supplied,  and  half  unreal. 
Like  music  mingling  with  a  dream." 

John  Kekton. 

I  do  not  doubt  that  the  "  music  "  of  the 
two  concluding  lines  mingled,  though  very 
unconsciously,  with  my  own  "dream,"  and 
gave  their  form  and  pressure  to  the  above 
distich.  The  ideas  however  being  sufficient- 
ly distinct,  I  am  satisfied  with  sending  this 
note  to  the  press  after  my  verses,  and  with 
acknowledging  another  obligation  to  the 
valued  friend  to  whom  I  already  owe  so 
many.     1S44. 


T 


354 


,S0  UNDS. 


While,  sliaking  the  tower  of  the  an- 
cient church, 
The  marriage-bells  do  swing; 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  porch 
An  idiot  sits  with  his  lean  hands  full 
Of    hedgerow  flowers    and    a    poet's 

skull, 
Laughing  loud  and  gil)hering 
Because  it  is  so  brown  a  thing, 
"While  he  sticketh  the  gaudy  poppies 

red 
In  and  out  the  senseless  head 
Where  all  sweet  fancies  grew  instead. 
And  you  may  hear  at  the  self-same 

time 
Another  poet  who  reads  his  rhyme, 
Low  as  a  brook  in  summer  air, 
Save    when    he    droppeth    his    voice 

adown 
To  dream  of  the  amaranthine  crown 
His  mortal  brows  shall  wear; 
And  a  baby  cries  with  a  feeble  sound 
'Neath  the  weary  weight  of  the   life 

new-found; 
And  an   old  man  groans  —  with  his 

testament 
Only  half-signed  —  for  the  life  that's 

spent; 
And  lovers  twain  do  softly  say. 
As  they  sit  on  a  grave,  "  For  aye,  for 

aye;" 
And  foemen  twain,  while  Earth  their 

mother 
Looks    greenly    upward,   curse    each 

otlier; 
A  schoolboy   drones   his    task,    with 

looks 
Cast  over  the   page   to  the  elm-tree 

rooks; 
A  lonely  student  cries  aloud 
Eureka!  clasping  at  his  shroud; 
A  beldame's   age-cracked  voice  doth 

sing 
To  a  little  infant  slumbering; 
A  maid  forgotten  weeps  alone. 
Muffling  her  sobs    on    the    trysting- 

stone; 
A  sick  man  wakes  at  his  own  mouth's 

wail; 
A  gossip  coughs    in    her  thrice-told 

tale ; 
A    muttering    gamester    shakes    the 

dice ; 
A  reaper  foretells  good  luck  from  the 

skies; 
A  monarch  vows  as  he  lifts  his  hand 

to  them ; 
A  patriot,  leaving  his  native  laud  to 

them 


Cries  to  the  world  against  perjured 
state ; 

A  priest  disserts 

Upon  linen  skirts; 

A  sinner  screams  for  one  hope  more; 

A  dancer's  feet  do  palpitate 

A  ])iper's  music  out  on  the  floor; 

And  righ  to  the  awful  Dead,  the  liv- 
ing 

Low  speech  and  stealthy  steps  are 
giving. 

Because  he  cannot  hear; 

And  he  who  on  that  narrow  bier 

Has  room  enough  is  closely  wound 

In  a  silence  piercing  more  than  sound. 


III. 

Harken,  hark  en  ! 
God  siaeaketh  to  thy  soul, 
Using  the  supreme  voice  which  doth 

confound 
All  life  with  consciousness  of  Deity, 

All  senses  into  one,  — 
As  the  seer-saint  of  Patmos,  loving 
John 
(For  whom  did  backward  roll 
The  cloud-gate  of  the  future)  turned 

to  see 
The  Voice  which  spake.    It  speaketh 

now. 
Through  the  regular  breath    of    the 

calm  creation. 
Through  the  moan  of  the  creature's 

desolation 
Striking,  and  in  its  stroke  resembling 
The  memory  of  a  solemn  vow 
Which  jiierceth  the  din  of  a  festival 
To  one  in  the  midst,  —  and  he  letteth 
fall 
The  cup  with  a  sudden  trembling. 


IV. 

Harken,  harken  ! 
God  speaketh  in  thy  soul. 
Saying,    "O  thou  that  movest 
With  feeble  steps  across  this  earth  of 

mine. 
To  break  beside  the  fount  thy  golden 
bowl 
And  spill  its  purple  wine,  — 
Look  up  to  heaven  and  see  how  like 

a  scroll 
My  right  hand  hath  thine  immortality 


In 


an   eternal 
lovest 


grasping !    thou  that 


sonn/:ts. 


355 


The  songful  birds  and  grasses  under- 
foot, 

And  also  what  change  mars  and  tombs 
polhite  — 

J  am  the  end  of  love  !    give  love  to 
Me! 

And 

count  the  droppings  of  my  vic- 
tim-blood, 
And  seek  none  other  sound!  " 

V. 

0  thou  that  sinnest,  grace  doth  more 

abound 
Than  all  thy  sin  !  sit  still  beneatli  my 

rood, 

Harken,  barken  ! 
Shall  we  hear  the  lapsing  river 
And  our  brother's  sighing  ever, 

And  not  the  voice  of  God  ? 

SONNETS. 


THE   SOUL'S   EXPRESSION. 

With  stammering  lips  and  insufficient 

sound 
1  strive  and  struggle  to  deliver  right 
That  music  of  my   nature,   da.^    and 

night 
With  dream  and  thought  and  feeling 

interwound, 
And  inly  answering  all    tlie    senses 

round 
With  octaves  of  a  mystic  depth  and 

height 
Which  step  out  grandly  to  the  infinite 
From  the  dark  edges  of  the  sensual 

ground. 
This  song  of  soul  1  struggle  tooutbear 
Through  portals  of  the  sense,  sublimf^ 

and  whole, 
And  utter  all  myself  into  the  air: 
But  if  I  did  it,  as  the  thunder-roll 
Breaks  its  own  cloud,  my  flesh  would 

l^erisb  there, 
Before  that  dread  apocalypse  of  soul, 


THE    SERAPH    AND   POE^I'. 

The  seraph  sings  before  the  manifest 
God-One,  and  in  the  burning  of  the 

Seven, 
And  with  the  full  life  of  consummate 

Heaven 
Heaving  beneath  him  like  a  mother's 

breast 
Warm  with  her  first-born's  slumber 

in  that  nest. 


The  poet  sings  upon  the  earth  grave- 
riven, 

Before  the  naughty  world,  soon  self- 
forgiven 

For  wronging  him;  and  in  the  dark- 
ness prest 

From  his  own  soul  by  worldly  weights. 
Even  so 

Sing,  seraph  with  the  glory  !  heaven 
is  high ; 

Sing,  poet  with  the  sorrow  !  earth  is 
low ; 

The  universe's  inward  voices  cry 

"Amen"  to.  either  .song  of  joy  and 
woe; 

Sing,  seraph,  poet,  sing  on  equally  ! 


BEREAVEMENT. 

When  some  beloveds,  'neath  whose 

eyelids  lay 
The  sweet  lights  of  my  childhood,  one 

by  one, 
Did  leave  me  dai-k  before  the  natural 

sun, 
And   I  astonied   fell,   and   could  not 

pray, 
A  thought  within  me  to  myself  did 

say, 
"  Is  God  less  God,  that  thou  art  left 

undone  ? 
Rise,  worship,  bless  him  in  this  sack- 
cloth spun, 
As  in  that  purple  !  "     But  I  answered, 

"Nay! 


i5fi 


SONNETS. 


What  child  his  filial    heart  in  words 

can  loose 
If  he  behold  his  tender  father  raise 
The  hand  that  chastens  sorely  ?  can 

he  choose 
But  sob  in  silence  with   an   upward 

gaze  ?  — 
And  my  great  Father,  thinking  fit  to 

bruise, 
Discerns    in    speechless    tears    both 

prayer  and  praise." 


CONSOLATION. 

All  are  not  taken :  there  are  left  be- 
hind 

Living  beloveds,  tender  looks  to  bring 

And  make  the  daylight  still  a  happy 
thing, 

And  tender  voices  to  make  soft  the 
wind : 

But  if  it  were  not  so,  if  I  could  find 

No  love  in  all  the  world  for  comfort- 
ing, 

Nor  any  path  but  hollowly  did  ring 

Where  "  dust  to  dust"  the  love  from 
life  disjoined, 

And  if,  before  those  sepulchres  uu- 
moving 

I  stood  alone  (as  some  forsaken  lamb 

Goes  bleating  up  the  moors  in  weary 
dearth), 

Crying,  "Where  are  ye,"0  my  loved 
"and  loving?  " 

I  know  a  Voice  would  sound, 
"  Daughter,  I  am. 

Can  I  suffice  for  heaven  and  not  for 
earth?" 


TO     MARY     RUSSELL     MIT- 
FORD. 

IN   HER   GARDEN. 

What  lime  I  lay  these  rhymes  auear 

thy  feet, 
Benignant  friend,  I  will  not  proudly 

say 
As  better  poets  use,  "  These  flowers  1 

lay," 
Because  I  would  not  wrong  thy  roses 

sweet. 
Blaspheming   so    their    name.      And 

yet  repeat 


Thou,  overleaning  them  this  spring- 
time day, 

With  heart  as  ouen  to  love  as  theirs  to 
May, 

—  "  Low-rooted  verse  may  reach  some 
heavenly  heat, 

Even  like  my  blossoms,  if  as  nature- 
true. 

Though  not  as  precious."  Thou  ai-t 
unperplext. 

Dear  friend,  in  whose  dear  writings 
drops  the  dew, 

And  blow  the  natural  airs,  —  thou, 
who  art  next 

To  nature's  self  in  cheering  the  world's 
view, 

To  preach  a  sermon  on  so  known  a 
text ! 


ON  A  PORTRAIT  OF  WORDS- 
WORTH BY  B.  R.  HAYDON. 

Wordsworth  upon  Helvellyn  !  Let 
the  cloud 

Ebbaudibly  along  the  mountain-wind. 

Then  break  against  the  rock,  and  show 
behind 

The  lowland  valleys  floating  up  to 
crowd 

The  sense  with  beauty.  He  with 
forehead  bowed 

And  humble-lidded  eyes,  as  one  in- 
clined 

Before  the  sovran  thought  of  his  own 
mind, 

And  very  meek  with  inspirations 
proud. 

Takes  here  his  rightful  place  as  poet- 
priest 

By  the  high  altar,  singing  prayer  and 
prayer 

To  the  higher  Heavens.  A  noble  vis- 
ion free 

Our  Haydon'.s  hand  has  fiung  out  from 
the  mist: 

No  portrait  tliis,  with  academic  air  ! 

This  is  the  poet  and  his  poetry. 


PAST   AND   FUTURE. 

My  future  will  not  copy  fair  my  past 
On  any  leaf  but  heaven's.     Be  fully 

done, 
Supernal  Will !     I  would  not  fain  be 

one, 


[-•-•-♦H 


SONNETS. 


357 


Who,  satisfying  thirst  and  breaking 

fast, 
Upon  the  fulness  of  the  heart  at  last 
Says  no  grace  after  meat.     My  wine 

has  run 
Indeed  out  of  nay  cup,  and  there   is 

none 
To  gather  up  the  bread  of  my  repast 
Scattered   and   trampled;    yet  I  find 

some  good 
In  earth's  green  herbs,  and  streams 

that  buttble  up 
Clear    from   the   darkling   ground,  — 

content  until 
I  sit  with  angels  before  better  food. 
Dear  Christ !  when  thy  new  vintage 

fills  my  cup, 
This  hand  shall  shake  no  more,  nor 

that  wine  spill. 


IRREPARABLENESS. 

I  HAVE'been  in  the  meadows  all  the 
day. 

And  gathered  there  the  nosegay  that 
you  see, 

Singing  within  myself  as  bird  or  bee. 

When  such  do  field-work  on  a  morn 
of  May. 

But,  now  I  look  upon  my  flowers,  de- 
cay 

Has  met  them  in  my  hands  more  fa- 
tally 

Because  more  warmly  clasped;  and 
sobs  are  free 

To  come  instead  of  songs.  What  do 
you  say. 

Sweet  counsellors,  dear  friends  ?  that 
I  should  go 

Back  straightway  to  the  fields  and 
gather  more  ? 

Another,  sooth,  may  do  it;  but  not  I ! 

My  heart  is  verj^  tired,  my  strength  is 
low, 

My  hands  are  full  of  blossoms  plucked 
before. 

Held  dead  within  them  till  myself 
shall  die. 


TEARS. 


Thank   God,  bless  God,  all   ye  who 

suffer  not 
More   grief    than   ve    can  weep    for. 

That  is  well;" 


That  is  light  grieving !  lighter,  none 
befell 

Since  Adam  forfeited  the  primal  lot. 

Tears  !— what  are  tears?  The  babe 
weeps  in  its  cot, 

The  mother  singing;  at  her  marriage- 
bell 

The  bride  weeps;  and  before  the  ora- 
cle 

Of  high-faned  hills  the  poet  has  forgot 

Such  moisture  on  his  cheeks.  Thank 
God  for  grace. 

Ye  who  weep  only  !  If,  as  some  have 
done, 

Ye  grope  tear-blinded  in  a  desert 
place, 

And  touch  but  tombs,  look  up ! 
those  tears  will  run 

Soon  in  long  rivers  down  the  lifted 
face. 

And  leave  the  A-ision  clear  for  stars 
and  sun. 


GRIEF. 

I  TELL  you  hoi>eless  grief  is  passion- 
less ; 

That  only  men  incredulous  of  despair. 

Half-taught  in  anguish,  through  the 
midnight  air 

Beat  upward  to  God's  throne  in  loud 
access 

Of  shrieking  and  reproach.  Full  des- 
ertness. 

In  souls  as  countries,  lieth  silent-bare 

Under  the  blanching,  vertical  ej^e- 
glare 

Of  the  absolute  heavens.  Deep- 
hearted  man,  express 

Grief  for  thy  dead  in  silence  like  to 
death  — 

Most  like  a  monumental  statue  set 

In  everlasting  watch  and  moveless 
woe 

Till  itself  crumble  to  the  dust  beneath. 

Touch  it;  the  marble  eyelids  are  not 
wet : 

If  it  could  weep,  it  could  arise  and  go. 


SUBSTITUTIOX. 

When   some   beloved  voice  that  was 

to  you 
Both    sound    and    sweetness    faileth 

suddenly. 


i 


358 


SONNETS. 


And  silence  against  which  jou  dare 
not  cry 

Aches  round  you  like  a  strong  dis- 
ease and  new, 

What  hope  ?  what  lielii  ?  what  music 
will  undo 

That  silence  to  your  sense  ?  Not 
friendshii:)'s  sigh; 

Not  reason's  subtle  count;  not  mel- 
ody 

Of  viols,  nor  of  pipes  that  Fauims 
blew; 

Not  songs  of  poets,  nor  of  nightin- 
gales 

Whose  hearts  leap  upward  through 
the  cypress-trees 

To  the  clear  moon ;  nor  yet  the  spheric 
laws 

Self-chanted,  nor  the  angels'  sweet 
All-hails, 

Met  in  the  smile  of  God:  nay,  none 
of  these. 

Speak  THOU,  availing  Christ !  and  fill 
this  pause. 


COMFORT. 

Speak  low  to  me,  my  Saviour,  low 
and  sweet 

From  out  the  hallelujahs  sweet  and 
low, 

Lest  I  should  fear  and  fall,  and  miss 
thee  so. 

Who  art  not  missed  by  any  that  en- 
treat. 

Speak  to  me  as  to  Mary  at  thj' 
feet! 

And  if  no  precious  gums  my  hands 
bestow, 

Let  my  tears  drop  like  amber  while  I 
go 

In  reach  of  thy  divinest  voice  com- 
plete 

In  humanest  affection,  —  thus,  in 
sooth. 

To  lose  the  sense  of  losing;  as  a 
child, 

Whose  song-bird  seeks  the  wood  for- 
evermore, 

Is  sung  to  in  its  stead  bj^  mother's 
mouth 

Till,  sinking  on  her  breast,  love-recon- 
ciled. 

He  sleeps  the  faster  that  he  wept  be- 
fore. 


pp:rplexei)  music. 

AFFECTIONATELY   INSCRIBED    TO 
E.J. 

Experience,  like  a  pale  musician, 
holds 

A  dulcimer  of  i>atience  in  his  hand. 

Whence  harmonies  we  cannot  under- 
stand. 

Of  God's  will  in  his  worlds,  the  strain 
unfolds 

In  sad,  peri^lexed  minors:  deathly 
colds 

Fall  on  us  while  we  hear,  and  coun- 
termand 

Our  sanguine  heart  back  from  the 
fancy-lantl, 

With  nightingales  in  visionary  wolds. 

We  murmur,  "  Where  is  an j"  certain 
tune 

Or  measured  music  in  such  notes  as 
these  ? 

But  angels,  leaning  from  the  golden 
seat. 

Are  not  so  minded :  their  fine  ear  hath 
won 

The  issue  of  completed  cadences. 

And,  smiling  down  the  stars,  they 
whisper  —  Sweet. 


WOflK. 

What  are  we  set  on  earth  for  ?  Say, 
to  toil ; 

Nor  seek  to  leave  thy  tending  of  the 
vines 

For  all  the  heat  o'  the  day,  till  it 
declines, 

And  death's  mild  curfew  shall  from 
work  assoil. 

God  did  anoint  thee  with  his  odor- 
ous oil. 

To  wrestle,  not  to  reign;  and  he  as- 
signs 

All  thy  tears  over,  like  pure  crystal- 
lines, 

For  younger  fellow-workers  of  the 
soil 

To  wear  for  amulets.  So  others 
shall 

Take  patience,  labor,  to  their  heart 
and  hand, 

From  thy  hand  and  thy  heart  and  thy 
brave  cheer. 

And  God's  grace  fructify  through 
thee  to  all. 


SONNETS. 


359 


The  least  flower,   with  a  brimming 

CU13  may  stand 
And  share  its  dewdrop  with  another 

near. 


FUTURITY. 

AxD  O  beloved  voices,  upon  which 

Ours  passionately  call,  because  ere- 
long 

Ye  brake  off  in  the  middle  of  that 
song 

We  sang  together  softly,  to  enrich 

The  poor  world  with  the  sense  of  love, 
and  witcli 

The  heart  out  of  things  evil,  —  1  am 
strong. 

Knowing  ye  are  not  lost  for  aye 
among 

The  hills  with  last  year's  thrush. 
God  keeps  a  niche 

In  heaven  to  hold  our  idols;  and  al- 
beit 

He  brake  them  to  our  faces,  and  de- 
nied 

That  our  close  kisses  should  impair 
their  white, 

I  know  we  shall  behold  them  raised, 
complete, 

The  dust  swept  from  their  beauty,  — 
glorified 

New  Memnons  singing  in  the  great 
God-light. 


THE   TWO    SAYINGS. 

Two  sayings  of  the  Holy  Scriptures 

beat 
Like  pulses  in  the  church's  brow  and 

breast ; 
And  by  them  we  find  rest  in  our  un- 
rest. 
And,  heart-deep  in  salt  tears,  do  yet 

entreat, 
God's  fellowship  as  if   on   heavenly 

seat. 
The  first  is,  Jesus  wept,  whereon  is 

prest 
Full  many  a  sobbing  face  that  drops 

its  best 
And  sweetest  waters  on   the  record 

sweet: 
And  one  is  where  the  Christ,  denied 

and  scorned, 
Looked  upojj  Peteu.    Oh,  to  render 

plain. 


By  help  of  having  loved  a  little,  and 
mourned. 

That  look  of  sovran  love  and  sovran 
pain 

Which  He,  who  could  not  sin  yet  suf- 
fered, turned 

On  him  who  could  reject,  but  not  sus- 
tain ! 


THE   LOOK. 


The  Saviour  looked  on  Peter.  Ay, 
no  word. 

No  gesture  of  reproach:  the  heavens 
serene, 

Tliough  heavy  with  armed  justice,  did 
not  lean 

Their  thunders  that  way:  the  forsaken 
Lord 

Looked  only  on  the  traitor.  None  re- 
cord 

What  that  look  was,  none  guess;  for 
those  who  liave  seen 

Wronged  lovers  loving  through  a 
death-pang  keen, 

Or  pale-cheeked  martyrs  smiling  to  a 
sword. 

Have  missed  Jehovah  at  the  judg- 
ment-call. 

And  Peter,  from  the  height  of  blas- 
phemy, — 

"  I  never  knew  this  man  "  —  did  quail 
and  fall 

As  knowing  straight  that  God,  and 
turned  free 

And  went  out  speechless  from  the 
face  of  all. 

And  filled  the  silence,  weeping  bitter- 
ly- 


THE    MEANING   OF   THE 
LOOK. 

I  THINK  that  look  of  Christ  might 
seem  to  say, 

"Thou  Peter  !  art  thou,  then,  a  com- 
mon stone 

Which  I  at  last  must  break  my  heart 
upon. 

For  all  God's  charge  to  his  high  an- 
gels may 

Guard  mj^  foot  better  ?  Did  I  yester- 
day 

Wash  thy  feet,  my  beloved,  that  they 
should  run 

Quick  to  deny  me  'neath  the  morning 
sun  ? 


I 


360 


SONNETS. 


And  do  thy  kisses,  like  the  rest,  be- 
tray ? 

Tlie  cock  crows  coldly.  —  Go,  and 
manifest 

A  late  contrition,  but  no  bootless 
fear; 

For,  when  thy  final  need  is  dreariest, 

Thou  shalt  not  be  denied,  as  I  am 
here: 

My  voice  to  God  and  angels  shall  at- 
test, 

Because  I  know  this  man,  let  him  be 
clear." 


A    THOUGHT  FOR  A  LONE- 
LY DEATH-BED. 

INSCRIBED   TO   MY   FRIEND  E.  C. 

If  God  compel  thee  to  this  destiny. 

To  die  alone,  with  none  beside  thy 
bed 

To  rufHe  round  with  sobs  thy  last 
word  said. 

And  mark  with  tears  the  pulses  ebb 
from  thee. 

Pray  then  alone,  "  O  Christ,  come  ten- 
derly ! 

By  thy  forsaken  Sonship  in  the  red 

Drear  wine-press,  by  the  wilderness 
outspread. 

And  the  lone  garden  where  thine 
agony 

Fell  bloody  from  thy  brow,  —  by  all 
of  those 

Permitted  desolations,  comfort  mine  ! 

No  earthly  friend  being  near  me,  in- 
terpose 

No  deathly  angel  'twixt  my  face  and 
thine, 

But  stoop  thyself  to  gather  my  life's 
rose. 

And  smile  away  my  mortal  to  di- 
vine !  " 


WORK    AND    CONTEMPLA- 
TION. 

The  woman  singeth  at  her  siMnning- 

wheel 
A  pleasant  chant,  ballad,  or  barcarole; 
She   thinketh   of   her  song,  upon  the 

whole, 
Far  more  than  of  her  flax;   and  yet 

the  reel 
Is  fiill,  and  artfully  her  fingers  feel 


With  quick  adjustment,  jirovident 
control. 

The  lines,  too  subtly  twisted  to  un- 
roll. 

Out  to  a  perfect  thread.  I  hence  ap- 
peal 

To  the  dear  Christian  Church,  that 
we  may  do 

Our  Father's  business  in  these  tem- 
ples mirk, 

Thus  swift  and  steadfast,  thus  intent 
and  strong; 

While  thus,  apart  from  toil,  our  souls 
pursue 

Some  high,  calm,  spheric  tune,  and 
prove  our  work 

The  better  for  the  sweetness  of  our 
song. 


PAIN   IN    PLEASURE. 

A  THOUGHT   lay   like  a  flower  upon 

mine  heart, 
And   drew  around   it  other  thoughts 

like  bees. 
For  multitude   and   thirst  of   sweet- 
nesses: 
Whereat  rejoicing,  I  desired  the  art 
Of  the  Greek  whistler,  who  to  wharf 

and  mart 
Could  lure  those  insect  swarms  from 

orange-trees, 
That    I    might    hive    with    me    such 

thoughts,  and  please 
My  soul  so  always.    Foolish  counter- 
part 
Of  a  weak  man's  vain  wishes  !     While 

I  spoke, 
Ths  thought  I  called  a  flower  grew 

nettle-rough, 
The  thoughts  called   bees  stung  me 

to  festering: 
Oh,   entertain  (cried  Reason    as  she 

woke,) 
Your  best  and  gladdest  thoughts  but 

long  enough. 
And  they  will  all  prove  sad  enough  to 

sting  ! 


FLUSH   OR   FAUNUS. 

You  see  this  dog:  it  was  but  yester- 
day 
I  mused,  forgetful  of  his  presence  here, 
Till  thought  on  thought  drew  down- 
ward tear  on  tear: 


SONNETS. 


Wheii  from  the  pillow  wliere  wet- 
cheeked  I  lay, 

A  head  as  haiiy  as  Fauniis  thrust  its 
way 

Right  sudden  against  my  face,  two 
golden-clear 

Great  eyes  astonished  mine,  a  droop- 
ing ear 

Did  flap  me  on  either  cheek  to  dry  the 
spray  ! 

1  started  first  as  some  Arcadian 

Amazed  by  goatly  god  in  twilight 
grove; 

But,  as  the  bearded  vision  closelier 
ran 

My  tears  off,  I  knew  Flush,  and  rose 
above 

Surprise  and  sadness,  thanking  the 
true  Pan 

Who  by  low  creatures  leads  to  heights 
of  love. 


FINITE   AND   INFINITE. 

The  wind  sounds  only  in  opposing 
straits. 

The  sea  beside  the  shore;  man's 
spirit  rends 

Its  quiet  only  up  against  the  ends 

Of  wants  and  oppositions,  loves  and 
hates, 

Where,  worked  and  worn  by  passion- 
ate debates. 

And  losing  by  the  loss  it  apprehends, 

The  flesh  rocks  round,  and  .every 
breath  it  sends 

Is  ravelled  to  a  sigh.  All  tortured 
states 

Suppose  a  straitened  place.  Jehovah, 
Lord, 

Make  room  for  rest,  around  me  !  out 
of  sight 

Now  float  me,  of  the  vexing  land  ab- 
horred, 

Till,  in  deep  calms  of  space,  my  soul 
may  right 

Her  nature,  shoot  large  sail  on  length- 
ening cord. 

And  rush  exultant  on  the  infinite. 


AN   APPREHENSION. 

If  all  the  gentlest-hearted  friends  I 
know 

Concentred  in  one  heart  their  gentle- 
ness, 


That  still  grew  gentler  till  its  pulse 
was  less 

For  life  than  pity,  I  should  yet  be 
slow 

To  bring  mj'  own  heart  nakedly  be- 
low 

The  palm  of  such  a  friend,  that  he 
should  press 

Motive,  condition,  means,  appli- 
ances. 

My  false  ideal  joy  and  fickle 
woe, 

Out  full  to  light  and  knowledge:  I 
should  fear 

Some  plait  between  the  brows,  some 
rougher  chime 

In  the  free  voice.  O  angels,  let  your 
flood 

Of  bitter  scorn  dash  on  me  !  do  ye 
hear 

What  /  say  who  bear  calmly  all  the 
time 

This  everlasting  face  to  face  with 
God? 


DISCONTENT. 

Light  human  nature  is  too  lightly 

tost 
And  ruffled  without  cause,  complain- 
ing on, 
Kestless  with  rest,  until,  being  over- 
thrown. 
It    learneth    to    lie    quiet.       Let    a 

frost 
Or  a  small  wasp  have   crept   to  the 

innermost 
Of  our  ripe  peach,  or  let   the  wilful 

sun 
Shine    westward    of     our    window, 

straight  we  run 
A  furlong's  sigh,  as  if  the  world  were 

lost. 
But  what  time  through  the  heart  and 

through  the  brain 
God  hath  transfixed  us,  we,  so  moved 

before, 
Attain  to  a  calm.     Ay,  shouldering 

weights  of  pain. 
We  anchor  in  deep  waters,  safe  from 

shore. 
And  hear,  submissive  o'er  the  stormy 

main 
God's  chartered  judgments  walk  for- 

evermore. 


I 


362 


SONNETS. 


PATIENCE  TAUGHT  BY 
NATURE. 

'  O  DREARY  life!  "  we  cry,  "  O  dreary, 

life!" 
And  still  the  generations  of  the  birds 
Sing  through  our  sighing,   and    the 

flocks  and  herds 
Serenely  live  while  we  are  keeping 

strife 
With  Heaven's  true  pur^jose  in  us,  as 

a  knife 
Against    which    we    may    struggle! 

Ocean  girds 
Unslackened  the  dry  land,  savannah- 
swards 
Unweary  sweep,  hills  watch  unworn, 

and  rife 
Meek  leaves  drop  yearly  from    the 

forest-trees 
To  show  above  the  unwasted  stars 

that  i)ass 
In  their  old  glory.     O  thou  God  of  old, 
Grant  me  some  smaller  grace  than 

comes  to  these  ! 
But  so  much  patience  as  a  blade  of 

grass 
Grows    by,    contented   througli    the 

heat  and  cold. 


To  meet  the  flints  ?    At  least  it  may 

be  said, 
"  Because  the  way  is  short,  I  thank 

thee,  God." ' 


CHEERFULNESS   TAUGHT 
BY   REASON. 

I  THINK  we  are  too  ready  with  com- 
plaint 

In  this  fair  world  of  God's.  Had  we 
no  hope, 

Indeed,  beyond  the  zenith,  and  the 
slope 

Of  yon  gray  blank  of  sky,  we  might 
grow  faint 

To  muse  upon  eternity's  constraint 

Round  our  aspirant  souls;  but,  since 
the  scope 

Must  widen  early,  is  it  well  to  droop, 

FoT  a  few  days  consumed  in  loss  and 
taint  ? 

O  pusillanimous  heart,  be  comforted, 

And  like  a  cheerful  traveller  take  the 
road, 

Singing  beside  the  hedge.  What  if 
the  bread 

Be  bitter  in  thine  inn,  and  tliou  un- 
shod 


EXAGGERATION. 

We  overstate  the  ills  of  life,  and  take 

Imagination  (given  us  to  bring  down 

The  choirs  of  singing  angels  over- 
shone 

By  God's  clear  glory)  down  our  earth 
to  rake 

The  dismal  snows  instead,  flake  fol- 
lowing flake, 

To  cover  all  the  corn;  we  walk  upon 

The  shadow  of  hills  across  a  level 
thrown. 

And  pant  like  climbers:  near  the  al- 
derbrake 

We  sigh  so  loud,  the  nightingale  with- 
in 

Refuses  to  sing  loud,  as  else  she  would. 

O  brothers!  let  us  leave  the  shame 
and  sin 

Of  taking  vainly,  in  a  plaintive  mood, 

The  holy  name  of  Grief!  —  holj' 
herein. 

That  by  the  grief  of  One  came  all  our 
good. 


ADEQUACY. 

Now,  by  the  verdure  on  thy  thousand 
hills, 

Beloved  England,  doth  the  earth  ap- 
pear 

Quite  good  enough  for  men  to  over- 
bear 

The  will  of  God  in,  with  rebellious 
wills ! 

We  cannot  say  the  morning-sun  ful- 
fils 

Ingloriously  its  course,  nor  that  the 
clear, 

Strong  stars  without  significance  in- 
sphere 

Our  habitation:  we,  meantime,  our 
Ills 

Heap  up  against  this  good,  aud  lift  a 
cry 

Against  this  work-day  world,  this  ill- 
spread  feast, 

As  if  ourselves  were  better  certainly 

Than  what  we  come  to.  Maker  and 
High  Priest, 


SONNETS. 


863 


I 


I  ask  thee  not  my  joys  to  multiply', 
Only  to  make  me   worthier    of    the 
least. 


TO   GEORGE   SAND. 

A  DESIRE. 

I  Thou  large-brained  woman  and  large- 

I  hearted  man, 

i   Self-called  George  Sand,  whose  son], 

amid  the  lions 
;    Of  thy  tumultuous  senses,  moans  de- 
rt  fiance, 

And  answers  roar  for  roar,  as  spirits 
can, 

I  would  some  mild  miraculous  thun- 
der ran 

Above  the  ajiplauded  circus,  in  appli- 
ance 

Of  thine  own  uoliler  nature's  strength 
and  science, 

Drawing  two  jiinions,  white  as  wings 
of  swan. 

From  thy  strong  shoulders,  to  amaze 
the  place 

With  holier  light  !   that  thou,  to  wo- 
man's claim 

And   man's,  mightst  join  beside  the 
angel's  grace 

Of    a    jnire    genius    sanctified    from 
blame. 

Till  child  and  maiden  pressed  to  thine 
emlirace 

To  kiss  upon  thy  lips  a  stainless  fame. 


( 


TO   GEORGE   SAND. 

A  RECOGNITION. 

Tkue  genius,  but  true  woman,  dost 
deny 

The  woman's  uature  with  a  manly 
scorn. 

And  break  away  the  gauds  and  arm- 
lets worn 

By  weaker  women  in  captivity  ? 

Ah,  vain  denial!  that  revolted  cry 

Is  sobbed  in  by  a  woman's  voice  for- 
lorn. 

Thy  woman's  hair,  my  sister,  all  un- 
shorn, 

Floats  back  dishevelled  strength  in 
agony, 

Disproving  thy  man's  name;  and 
while  before 


The  world  thou  burnest  in  a  poet-fire, 

We  see  thy  woman-heart  beat  ever- 
more 

Through  the  large  flame.  Beat  jiurer, 
heart,  and  higher. 

Till  God  unsex  thee  on  the  heavenly 
shore 

Where  unincarnate  spirits  ]iurely  as- 
pire ! 


THE   PRISONER. 

I  COUNT  the  dismal  time  by  months 

and  years 
Since  last  I  felt  the  greensward  under 

foot, 
And  the  great  breath  of  all  things 

summer-mute 
Met  mine  upon  my  lips.    Now  earth 

appears 
As  strange  to  me  as  dreams  of  distant 

spheres, 
Or  thoughts  of  heaven  we  weep  at. 

Nature's  lute 
Sounds  on,  behind  this  door  so  closely 

shut, 
A  strange,  wild  uuisic  to  the  prison- 
er's ears 
Dilated  by  the  distance,  till  the  brain 
Grows  dim  with  fancies  which  it  feels 

too  fine, 
While  ever,  with  a  visionary  pain. 
Past  the  precluded  senses,  sweep  and 

shine 
Streams,  forests,  glades,  and  many  a 

golden  train 
Of  sunlit  hills  transfigured  to  divine. 


INSUFFICIENCY. 

When  I  attain  to  utter  forth  in  verse 

Some  inward  thought,  my  soul  throbs 
audibly 

Along  my  pulses,  yearning  to  be  free, 

And  something  farther,  fuller,  higher, 
rehearse, 

To  the  individual,  true,  and  the  uni- 
verse. 

In  consummation  of  right  harmony; 

But  like  a  wind-exposed,  distorted 
tree. 

We  are  blown  against  forever  by  the 
curse 


364 


SONNETS. 


Which  breathes  through  nature.  Oh, 
the  workl  is  weak. 

The  effluence  of  each  is  false  to  all, 

And  what  we  best  conceive  we  fail  to 
speak. 

Wait,  soul,  until  thine  ashen  gar- 
ments fall, 

And  then  resume  thy  broken  strains, 
and  seek 

Fit  peroration  without  let  or  thrall. 


TWO   SKETCHES. 

H.  B. 


The  shadow  of  her  face  upon  the  wall 
May  take  your  memory  to  the  perfect 

Greek; 
But  when  you  front  her,  you  would 

call  tiie  cheek 
Too  full,  sir,  for  your  models,  if,  with- 
al, 
That  bloom  it  wears  could  leave  you 

critical. 
And  that  smile  reaching  toward  the 

rosy  streak ; 
For  one  who  smiles  so  has  no  need  to 

speak 
To  lead  your  thoughts  along,  as  steed 

to  stall. 
A  smile  that  turns  the  sunny  side  o" 

the  heart 
On  all  the  world,  as  if  herself  did  win 
By   what  she  lavished  ou  an    open 

mart ! 
Lei  no  man  call  the  liberal  sweetness 

sin; 
For  friends  may  whisper  as  they  stand 

apart, 
"  Metliinks  there's  still  some  warmer 

place  within."' 


A.   B. 

II. 

Hek  azure  eyes  dark  lashes  hold  in 

fee; 
Her  fair  superliuous  ringlets  without 

check 
Drop    after    one    another  down    her 

neck. 
As  many  to  each  cheek  as  you  might 

see 


Green  leaves  to  a  wild  rose:  this  sign 

outwardly. 
And  a  like  woman-covering  seems  to 

deck 
Her  inner  nature,   for  she   will   not 

rteck 
World's  sunshine  with  a  finger.   Sym- 
pathy 
Must  call  her  in   love's  name  !   and 

then,  I  know, 
She  rises  up,   and  brightens  as  she 

should. 
And  lights  her  smile  for  comfort,  and 

is  slow 
In  nothing  of  high-hearted  fortitude. 
To  smell  this  flower,  come  near  it: 

such  can  grow 
In  that  sole  garden   where  Christ's 

brow  dropped  blood. 


MOUNTAINEER   AND    POET. 

The  simple  goatherd  between  Alp 
and  sky, 

Seeing  his  shadow  in  that  awful  tryst 

Dilated  to  a  giant's  on  the  mist. 

Esteems  not  liis  own  stature  larger  by 

The  apparent  image,  but  more  pa- 
tiently 

Strikes  his  staff  down  beneath  his 
clenching  tist, 

While  the  snow-mountains  lift  their 
amethyst 

And  sapphire  crowns  of  splendor,  far 
and  nigh. 

Into  the  air  around  him.  Learn  from 
hence 

Meek  morals,  all  ye  poets  tliat  pursue 

Your  way  still  onward  up  to  emi- 
nence: 

Ye  are  not  great  because  creation 
drew 

Large  revelations  round  your  earliest 
sense, 

Nor  bright  because  God's  glory  shines 
for  you. 

THE  POET. 

The  poet  hath  the  child's  sight  in  his 

breast, 
And  sees  all  neiv.     What  oftenest  he 

has  viewed. 
He  views  with  the  first  glorj'.     Fair 

and  good 
Pall  never  on  him  at  the  fairest,  best, 


SONNETS. 


365 


But  stand  before  him  holy,  and  un- 
dressed 

In  week-day  false  conventions,  such 
as  would 

Drag  other  men  <lown  from  the  alti- 
tude 

Of  primal  types,  too  early  dispos- 
sessed. 

M'liy,  God  would  tire  of  all  his  heav- 
ens as  soon 

As  thou.  O  godlike,  childlike  poet, 
didst 

Of  daily  and  nightly  sights  of  sun  and 
moon; 

And  therefore  hath  he  set  tliee  iu  the 
midst, 

Where  men  may  hear  thy  wonder's 
ceaseless  tune, 

And  praise  his  world  forever  as  thou 
bidst. 


HIRAM   POWERS'   GREEK 
SLAVE. 

They  say  ideal  beauty  cannot  en- 
ter 

The  house  of  anguish.  On  the  thresh- 
old stands 

An  alien  Image  with  enshackled 
hands, 

Called  the  Greek  Slave !  as  if  the 
artist  meant  her 

(That  passionless  perfection  which  he 
lent  her. 

Shadowed,  not  darkened,  where  the 
sill  expands) 

To  so  confront  man's  crimes  in  differ- 
ent lauds 

"With  man's  ideal  sense.  Pierce  to 
the  centre. 

Art's  fiery  finger  !  and  break  up  ere 
long 

The  serfdom  of  this  world  !  appeal, 
fair  stone. 

From  God's  pure  heights  of  beauty 
against  man's  wrong  ! 

Catch  up  in  thy  divine  face,  not 
alone 

East  griefs,  but  west,  and  strike  and 
shame  the  strong, 

By  thunders  of  white  silence  over- 
thrown. 


LIFE. 

Each  creature  holds  an  insular  point 

in  space; 
Yet  what  man  stirs  a  tinger,  breathes 

a  sound. 
But     all     the     multitudinous    beings 

round 
In  all  the  countless  worlds,  witli  time 

and  place 
For   their    conditions,    down    to    the 

central  base. 
Thrill,   haply,   in   vibration    and    re- 
bound . 
Life  answering   life  across   the  vast 

profound. 
In    full    antiphony,     by    a    common 

grace  ? 
I  think  this  sudden   joyaunce  which 

illumes 
A  child's  mouth  sleeping,   unaware 

may  run 
From  some  soul  newly  loosened  from 

earth's  tombs: 
I   think   this  passionate  sigh,  which, 

half-begun, 
I  stifle  back,  may  reach  and  stir  the 

plumes 
Of  God's  calm  angel  standing  iu  the 

sun. 


LOVE. 

We  cannot  live,  except  thus  mutu- 
ally 

We  alternate,  aware  or  unaware. 

The  reflex  act  of  life;  and  when  we 
bear 

Our  virtue  outward  most  impulsively, 

Most  full  of  invocation,  and  to  be 

Most  instantly  compellant,  certes 
there 

We  live  most  life,  whoever  breathes 
most  air. 

And  counts  his  dying  years  by  sun 
and  sea: 

But  when  a  soul  by  choice  and  con- 
science doth 

Throw  out  her  full  force  on  another 
soul, 

The  conscience  and  the  concentration 
both 

Make  mere  life,  love.  For  Life  in 
perfect  whole 

And  aim  consummated  is  Love  lu 
sooth. 

As  nature's  magnet-heat  rounds  pole 
with  pole. 


1_ 

il 


366 


SONNETS. 


HEAVEN   AND   EARTH. 

"And  there  was  silence  in  lieaven  for  the 
space  of  half  an  hour."  —  Revelation. 

God,  who  with  thunders  and  great 

voices  kept 
Beneath   tliy  throne,  and  stars  most 

silver-paced 
Along  the   inferior  gyres,  and  open- 
faced 
Melodious  angels  round,  canst  inter- 
cept 
Music  with  music,  yet  at  will   hast 

swept 
All  back,  all  back  (said  he  in  Patmos 

placed), 
To  fill  the  heavens  with  silence  of  the 

waste 
Which  lasted  half  an   hour  !  —  lo,  I 

who  have  wept 
All  day  and  night  beseech  thee  by 

my  tears. 
And  by  that  dread  response  of  curse 

and  groan 
Men    alternate    across    these    hemi- 

sjiheres. 
Vouchsafe  us  such  a  half-hour's  hush 

alone, 
In  ■  compensation     for     our    stormy 

years : 
As  heaven  has  paused  from  song,  let 

earth  from  moan. 


THE   PROSPECT. 

Methinks  we  do  as  fretful  children 

do. 
Leaning  their  faces  on  the  window- 
pane 
To  sigh  the  glass  dim  with  their  own 

breath's  stain, 
And  shut  the  sky  and  landscape  from 

their  view; 
And  thus,  alas  !  since  God  the  maker 

drew 
A    mj^stic    separation    'twixt    those 

twain,  — 
The  life  beyond  us  and  our  souls  in 

pain,  — 
We  miss  the  prospect  which  we  are 

called  unto 
By  grief  we  are  fools  to  use.    Be  still 

and  strong, 
O  man,  my  brother  !  hold  thy  sobbing 

breath, 


And    keep   thy   soul's   large   window 

pure  from  wrong. 
That  so,  as  life's  appointment  issueth. 
Thy  vision  may   be  clear  to  watch 

along 
The  sunset    consummation-lights    of 

death. 


HUGH   STUART  BOYD.i 

HIS   BLINDNESS. 

God  would  not  let  the  spheric  lights 

accost 
This  God-loved  man,  ami   bade  the 

earth  stand  off 
With  all  her  beckoning  hills  whose 

golden  stuff 
Under  the  feet  of  the  royal   sun  is 

crosst. 
Yet    such    things   were    to    him    not 

wholly  lost,  — 
Permitted,  with  his  wandering  eyes 

light-proof, 
To    catch  fair  visions  rendered  full 

enough 
By  many  a  ministrant  accomplished 

ghost, — 
Still  seeing,  to  sounds  of  softly-turned 

book-leaves, 
Sappho's  crown-rose,  and  Meleager's 

spring. 
And  Gregory's  starlight   on    Greek- 
burnished  eves. 
Till  sensuous  and  unsensuous  seemed 

one  thing. 
Viewed    from     one     level,  —  earth's 

reapers  at  the  sheaves 
Scarce  plainer  than  heaven's   angels 

on  the  wing. 

1  To  whom  was  inscribed,  in  grateful 
aftection,  my  poem  of  "Cyprus  Wine." 
There  comes  a  moment  in  life  when  even 
gratitude  and  affection  turn  to  pain,  as  they 
do  now  with  me.  This  excellent  and  learned 
man,  enthusiastic  for  the  good  and  the 
beautiful,  and  one  of  the  most  simple  and 
upright  of  human  beings,  passed  out  of  his 
long  darkness  through  death,  In  the  summer 
of  1848;  Dr.  Adam  Clarke's  daughter  and 
biographer,  Mrs.  Smith  (happier  in  this 
than  the  absent)  fulfilling  a  doubly  filial 
duty  as  she  sate  by  the  death-bed  of  her 
father's  friend  and  hers. 


THE    LOST  BOWER. 


367 


HUGH    STUART   BOYD. 

HIS   DEATH,   184S. 

Beloved    friend,   who,   living  many 
years 

With  sightless  eyes  raised  vainly  to 
the  sun. 

Didst  learn  to  keep  thy  patient  soul 
in  tune 

To  visible  Nature's  elemental  cheers, 

God  has  not  caught  thee  to  new  hemi- 
spheres 

Because  thou   wast    aweary   of    this 
one: 

I  think  thine  angel's  patience   first 
was  done, 

And  that  he  spake  out  with  celestial 
tears, 

"  Is  it  enough,  dear  God  ?  then  light- 
en so 

This  soul  that  smiles  in  darkness  !  " 
Steadfast  friend, 

Who  never  didst    my  heart    or  life 
misknow, 

Nor  cither's  faults  too  keenlj'  appre- 
hend. 

How  can  I  wonder  when  I  see  thee 
go 

To  join  the  dead  found  faithful  to  the 
end  ? 


HUGH    STUART   BOYD. 

LEGACIES. 

Three  gifts  the  dying  left  me,  —  JEs- 
chylus, 

And  Gregory  Nazianzen,  and  a  clock 

Chiming  the  gradual  hours  out  like  a 
flock 

Of  stars  whose  motion  is  melodi- 
ous. 

The  books  were  those  I  used  to  read 
from,  thus 

Assisting  my  dear  teacher's  soul  to 
unlocls: 

The  darkness  of  his  eyes:  now,  mine 
they  mock, 

Blinded  in  turn  by  tears;  now  mur- 
murous 

Sad  echoes  of  my  young  voice,  yeai'S 
agoue 

Entoning  from  these  leaves  the  Gre- 
cian phrase, 

Return  and  choke  my  utterance. 
Books,  lie  down 

In  silence  on  the  shelf  there,  within 
gaze; 

And  thou,  clock,  striking  the  hour's 
pulses  on, 

Chime  in  the  (lay  which  ends  these 
parting-days  ! 


THE  LOST  BOWER. 


In  the  pleasant  orchard-closes, 
"God    bless   all  our  gains!"   say 

we; 
But "  May  God  bless  all  our  losses  ! " 
Better  siiits  with  our  degree. 
Listen,  gentle,  ay,  and  simple  !  listen, 

children  on  the  knee  ! 

II. 

Green  the  land  is  where  my  daily 
Steps  in  jocund  childhood  played, 
Dimpled  close  with  hill  and   val- 
ley, 
Dappled  very  close  with  shade ; 
Summer-snow  of  apple-blossoms  run- 
ning up  from  glade  to  glade. 


in. 

There  is  one  hill  I  see  nearer 
In  my  vision  of  the  rest; 
And  a  little  wood  seems  clearer 
As  it  climbeth  from  the  west, 
Sideway  from  the  tree-locked  valley, 
to  the  airy  upland  crest. 


IV 

wood 


is,    green    with 


Small    the 
hazels, 

And,  completing  the  ascent, 

Where  the  wind  blows,  and  sun  daz- 
zles. 

Thrills  in  leafy  tremblement, 
Like  a  heart,  that,  after  climbing,  beat- 
eth  quickly  through  content. 


tO. 


368 


THE   LOST  BOWER. 


Not  a  step  the  wood  artvancos 
O'er  the  open  hilltop's  bound; 
There,  in  green  arrest,  the  branches 
See  their  image  on  the  ground : 
You  may  walk  beneath  them  smiling, 
glad  with  sight,  and  glad  with 
sound. 

VI. 

For  yoxi  harkou  on  your  right  hand 
How  the  birds  do  leap  and  call 
In  the  greenwood,  out  of  sight,  and 
Out  of  reach  and  fear  of  all; 
And  the  squirrels  crack  the  filberts 
through  their  cheerful  madrigal. 


VII. 

On  your  left,  the  sheep  are  cropping 
The  slant  grass  and  daisies  pale. 
And  live  api)le-trees  stand  dropping 
Separate  shadows  toward  the  vale 
Over  which,   in    choral    silence,   the 
hills  look  you  their  "  All  hail !  " 


VIII. 

Far  out,  kindled  by  each  other. 
Shining  hills  on  hills  arise. 
Close  as  brother  leans  to  brotlier 
"When  they  press  beneath  the  eyes 
Of  some  father  praying  blessings  from 
the  gifts  of  paradise. 


IX. 

"While  beyond,  above  them  mount- 
ed. 

And  above  their  woods  also, 

Malvern  hills,  for  mountains  count- 
ed 

Not  unduly,  loom  a-row  — 
Keepers  of  Piers  Plowman's  visions 
through  the  sunshine  and  the 
suow.i 

X. 

"\'et  in  childhood  little  ])rized  I 
That  fair  walk  and  far  survey: 
'Twas  a  straight  walk  unadvised  by 
The  least  mischief  worth  a  nay; 
Up  and  down  —  as  dull  as  grammar 
on  the  eve  of  holiday. 

•  The  Malvern  Hills  of  Worcestershire  are 
the  scone  of  Lauglandc's  visions,  and  ihus 
jiresent  the  earliest  classic  ground  of  Eng- 
lish poetry. 


XI. 

But  the  wood,  all  close  and  clench- 
ing 
Bough  in  boTigli  and  root  in  root,  — 
No  more  sky  (for  over-branching) 
At  your  head  than  at  your  foot,  — 
Oh,  the  wood  drew  me  within  it  by  a 
glamour  past  dispute  ! 


XII. 

Few    and     broken     paths    showed 

through  it, 
Where    the    sheep    had    tried    to 

run, 
Forced  with  snowy  wool  to  strew  it 
Round  the  thickets,  when  anon 
They,  with  silly  thorn-pricked  noses, 

bleated  back  into  the  sun. 


xin 

But  ray  childish  heart  beat  stronger 
Than  those  thickets  dared  to  grow : 
I  could  pierce  them  !  /  could  longer 
Travel  on,  methought,  than  so: 
Sheep  for  sheep-paths  !    braver  chil- 
dren   climb    and    creep    where 
they  would  go. 


XIV. 

And  the  poets  wander,  said  I, 
Over  places  all  as  rude: 
Bold  Rinaldo's  lovely  lady 
Sate  to  meet  him  ir^  a  wood: 
Rosalinda,  like  a  fountain,  laughed  out 
inire  with  solitude. 


XV. 

And,  if  Chaucer  had  not  travelled 
Through  a  forest  bj^  a  well. 
He  had  never  dreamt  nor  marvelled 
At  those  ladies  fair  and  fell 
Who  lived  smiling  without  loving  in 
their  island-citad«l. 


XVI. 

Thus  1  thought  of  the  old  singers. 
And  took  courage  from  their  song, 
Till  my  little  struggling  lingers 
Tore  asunder  gyve  and  thong 
Of  the  brambles  which  entrapped  me, 
and  the  barrier  branches  strong 


i 


"  And  five  apple-trees  stand  dropping 

Separate  shadows  towards  the  vale."  —  Page  36S. 
"  Shaping  thence  that  bower  of  beauty  whicli 

1  sing  of  thus  to  you."  — Page  369. 


\-  1  ^ 


iro 


THE  LOST  BOWER. 


369 


XVII. 

On  a  day,  such  pastime  keeping. 
With  a  fawn's  heart  debonair, 
Under-crawling,  overleaping 
Thorns  that  prick,  and  boughs  that 

bear, 
I    stood    suddenly  astouied  :    I    was 

gladdened  unaware. 

xvni. 

From  the  place  I  stood  in,  floated 
Back  the  covert  dim  and  close, 
And  the  open  ground  was  coated 
Carpet-smooth  with  grass  and  moss. 
And  the  bluebell's  purple  presence 
signed  it  worthily  across. 


bright- 


light- 


XIX. 

Here   a   linden-tree    stood, 

ening 
All  adown  its  silver  rind ; 
For  as  some  trees  draw  the 

ening, 

So  this  tree,  unto  my  mind. 
Drew  to  earth  the  blessed  sunshine 

from    the    sky    where    it    was 

shrined. 

XX. 

Tall  the  linden-tree,  and  near  it 
An  old  hawthorn  also  grew ; 
And  wood-ivy  like  a  spirit 
Hovered  dimly  round  the  two, 
Shaping  thence  that  bower  of  beauty 
which  I  sing  of  thus  to  you. 

XXI. 

'Twas  a  bower  for  garden  fitter 
Than  for  any  woodland  wide: 
Though  a  fresh  and  dewy  glitter 
Struck  it  through  from  side  to  side. 
Shaped  and  shaven  was  the  freshness, 
as  by  garden-cunning  plied. 

XXII. 

Oh  I  a  lady  might  have  come  there. 
Hooded  fairly  like  her  hawk, 
With  a  book  "or  lute  in  summer, 
And  a  hope  of  sweeter  talk,  — 
Listening  less  to  her  own  music  than 
for  footsteps  on  the  walk. 

XXIII. 

But  that  bower  appeared  a  marvel 
In  the  wildness  of  the  place; 
With  such  seeming  art  and  travail, 


Finely  fixed  and  fitted  was 
Leaf    to  leaf,  the  dark-green  ivy, 
the  summit  from  the  base. 


to 


XXIV. 

And  the  ivy,  veined  and  glossy, 
Was  inwrought  with  eglantine; 
And  the  wild  hop  fibred  closely; 
And  the  large-leaved  columbine, 
Arch  of  door  and  window-mullion, 
did  right  sylvanly  intwiue. 

XXV. 

Rose-trees  either  side  the  door  were 
Growing  lithe  and  growing  tall, 
Each  one  set  a  summer  warder 
For  the  keeping  of  the  hall, — 
With  a  red  rose   and  a  white  rose, 
leaning,  nodding  at  the  wall. 


XXVI. 

As  I>entered,  mosses  hushing 
Stole  all  noises  from  my  foot; 
And  a  green  elastic  cushion. 
Clasped  within  the  linden's  root, 
Took  me  in  a  chair  of  silence  very 
rare  and  absolute. 


XXVII. 

All  the  floor  was  paved  with  glory, 

Greenly,  silently  inlaid 

(Through  quick  motions  made  be- 
fore me) 

With  fair  counterparts  in  shade 
Of  the  fair  serrated  ivy-leaves  which 
slanted  overhead. 


xxvin. 

"  Is  such  pavement  in  a  palace  ?  " 
So  I  questioned  in  my  thought: 
The  sun,  shining  through  the  chal- 
ice 
Of  the  red  rose  hung  without. 
Threw  within  a  red  libation,  like  an 
answer  to  my  doubt. 

XXIX. 

At  the  same  time,  on  the  linen 

Of  my  childish  lap  there  fell 

"Two  white  may-leaves,  downward 

winning 
Through  the  ceiling's  miracle. 
From  a  blossom,  like  an  angel,  out  of 

sight,  yet  blessing  well. 


370 


THE   LOST   BOWER. 


XXX. 

Down  to  floor,  and  np  to  ceiling 
Quick  I  turned  my  childish  face. 
With  an  innocent  appealing 
For  the  secret  of  the  place 
To  the  trees,  which  surely  knew  it  in 
partaking  of  the  grace. 

XXXI. 

Where's  no  foot  of  human  creature 
How  could  reach  a  human  hand  ? 
And,  if  this  be  work  of  Nature, 
Why  has  Nature  turned  so  bland. 
Breaking  off  from  other  wild-work  ? 
It  was  hard  to  understand. 

xxxn. 
Was  she  weary  of  rough-doing. 
Of  the  bramble  and  the  thorn  ? 
Did  she  pause  in  tender  rueing 
Here  of  all  her  sylvan  scorn  ? 
Or  in  mock  of  art's  deceiving  was  the 
sudden  mildness  worn  ?  • 

xxxin. 

Or  could  this  same  bower  (I  fancied) 
Be  the  work  of  dryad  strong, 
Who,  surviving  all  that  chanced 
In  the  world's  old  Pagan  wrong, 
Lay  hid,  feeding  in  the  woodland  on 
the  last  true  poet's  song  ? 

XXXIV. 

Or  was  this  the  house  of  fairies, 
Left,  because  of  the  rough  ways, 
Unassoiled  by  Ave  Marys 
Which  the  passing  pilgrim  prays. 
And  beyond  St.  Catherine's  chiming 
on  the  blessed  sabbath  daj's  ? 

XXXV. 

So,  young  muser,  I  sate  listening 
To  my  fancy's  wildest  word: 
On  a  sudden,  through  the  glistening 
Leaves  around,  a  little  stirred, 
C'ame  a  sound,  a  sense  of  music,  which 
was  rather  felt  than  heard. 


XXXVI. 

Softly,  finely,  it  inwound  me; 
From  the  world  it  shut  me  in. 
Like  a  fountain  falling  i-ound  me. 
Which  with  silver  waters  thin 
Clips  a  little  water-Naiad  sitting  smil- 
ingly within. 


XXXVII. 

Whence  the  music  came,  whoknow- 

eth  ? 
/know  nothing;  but  indeed 
Pan  or  Faunus  never  bloweth 
So  much  sweetness  from  a  reed 
Which  has  sucked  the  milk  of  waters 

at  the  oldest  riverhead. 


XXXVIIl. 

Never  lark  the  sun  can  waken 
With    such    sweetness,    when    the 

lark, 
The  high  planets  overtaking 
In  the  half-evanished  dark. 
Casts  his  singing  to  their  singing,  like 
an  arrow  to  the  mark. 


XXXIX. 

Never  nightingale  so  singeth: 
Oh,  she  leans  on  thorny  tree, 
And  her  poet-song  she  flingeth 
Over  pain  to  victory  ! 
Yet  she  never  sings  such  music  —  or 
she  sings  it  not  to  me. 


XL. 

Never  blackbirds,  never  thrushes, 
Nor  small  finches,  sing  as  sweet, 
When  the  sun  strikes  through  the 

bushes 
To  their  crimson  clinging  feet. 
And  their  pretty  eyes  look  sideways 
to  the    summer  heavens    com- 
plete. 

XLI. 

If  it  xoere  a  bird,  it  seemed 

Most    like    Chaucer's,    which,     in 

sooth. 
He  of  green  and  azure  dreamed, 
AVhile  it  sate  in  spirit-ruth 
On  that  bier  of  a  crowned  lady,  sing- 
ing nigh  her  silent  mouth. 


XLII. 

If  it  v>ere  a  bird  ?  —  ah,  sceptic. 
Give     me     "yea"     or     give     me 

"nay," 
Though  my  soul  were  nymxiholep- 

tic 
As  I  heard  that  virelay, 
You  may  stoop  your  pride  to  pardon, 

for  my  sin  is  far  away  I 


THE   LOST   BOWER. 


371 


XLIII. 

I  rose  up  in  exaltation 
And  an  inward  trembling  heat, 
And  (it  seemed)  in  geste  of  passion 
Dropped  the  music  to  my  feet 
Like  a  garment  rustling  downwards  — 
such  a  silence  followed  it ! 


XLIV. 

Heart  and  head   beat   through  the 

quiet 
Full  and  heavily,  though  slower: 
In  the  song,  I  think,  and  by  it, 
Mystic  Presences  of  power 
Had  upsnatched  me  to  the  Timeless, 

then  returned  me  to  the  Hour. 

XLV. 

In  a  child-abstraction  lifted. 
Straightway  from  the  bower  I  past, 
Foot  and  soul  being  dimly  drifted 
Through  the  greenwood,  till  at  last 
In  the  hilltop's  open  sunshine  I   all 
consciously  was  cast. 


XLVI. 

with   the 


true  mouu- 


Face  to  face 

tains 
I  stood  silently  and  still. 
Drawing     strength     from    fancy's 

dauntings. 
From  the  air  about  the  hill. 
And  from  Nature's  open  mercies,  and 

most  debonair  good- will. 

XL  VII. 

Oh  the  golden-hearted  daisies 
"Witnessed  there,  before  my  youth, 
To  the  truth  of  things,  with  praises 
Of  the  beauty  of  the  truth  ; 
And  I  woke  to  Nature's  real,  laugh- 
ing joyfully  for  both. 

XLvni. 
And  I  said  within  me,  laughing, 
I  have  found  a  bower  to-day, 
A  green  lusus,  fashioned  half  in 
Chance,  and  half  in  Nature's  play, 
And  a  little  bird  sings  nigh  it,  I  will 
nevermore  missay. 

XLIX. 

Henceforth  /will  be  the  fairy 
Of  this  bower  not  built  by  one : 
I  will  go  there,  sad  or  merry, 


With  each  morning's  benison, 
And  the  bird  shall  be  my  harper  in 
the  dream-hall  I  have  won. 


So  I  said.   But  the  next  morning,  — 
(Child,  look  up  into  my  face,  — 
'Ware,  O  sceptic,  of  your  scorning  ! 
This  is  truth  in  its  pure  grace  !) 
The  next  morning,  all  had  vanished, 

or  my   wandering    missed    the 

place. 

LI. 

Bring  an  oath  most  sylvan-holy, 
And  upon  it  swear  me  true, 
By  the  wind-bells  swinging  slowly 
Their  mute  curfews  in  the  dew. 
By  the  advent  of  the   snowdrop,  by 
the  rosemary  and  rue,  — 


Lll. 

I  affirm  by  all  or  any. 
Let  the  cause  be  charm  or  chance. 
That  my  wandering  searches  many 
Missed  the  bower  of  my  romance. 
That  I  nevermore  upon  it  turned  my 
mortal  countenance. 


Lin. 

I  affirm,  that,  since  I  lost  it, 
Never  bower  has  seemed  so  fair, 
Never  garden-creeper  crossed  it 
With  so  deft  and  brave  an  air. 
Never  bird  sung  in  the  summer  as 
saw  and  heard  them  there. 


LIV. 

Day  by  day,  with  new  desire. 
Toward  my  wood  I  ran  in  faith, 
tinder  leaf  and  over  brier, 
Through  the  thickets,  out  of  breath, 
Like  the  prince  who  rescued  Beauty 
from  the  sleep  as  long  as  death. 


LV. 

But  his  sword  of  mettle  clashed. 
And  his  arm  smote  strong,  I  ween, 
And  her  dreaming  spirit  flashed 
Through     her    body's    fair    white 

screen. 
And    the  light  thereof   might  guide 

him  up  the  cedar  alleys  green. 


372 


THE  LOST  BOWER. 


LVI. 

But  for  me  I  saw  uo  splendor,  — 
All  my  sword  was  my  child-lieart; 
And  the  wood  refused  surrender 
Of  that  bower  it  held  ajiart, 
Safe    as    CEdipus'    grave-place  'mid 
Colone's  olives  swart. 

LVII. 

As  Aladdin  sought  the  basements 
His  fair  palace  rose  upon, 
And  the  four  and  twenty  casements 
"Which  gave  answers  to  the  sun, 
So,  in  wilderraent  of  gazing,  I  looked 
up,  and  I  looked  down. 


Lvra. 
vanished 


since,    as 


Years     have 

wholly 
As  the  little  bower  did  then; 
And  you  call  it  tender  folly 
That  such  thoughts  should    come 

again  ? 
Ah,  I  cannot  change  this  sighing  for 

your  smiling,  brother-men  ! 

LIX. 

For  this  loss  it  did  prefigure 
Other  loss  of  better  good, 
When  my  soul,  in  spirit-vigor 
And  in  ripened  womanhood, 
Fell  from  visions  of  more  beauty  than 
an  arbor  in  a  wood. 

LX. 

I  have  lost,  oh,  many  a  pleasure, 
Many  a  hope,  and  many  a  j^ower, 
Studious  health  and  merry  leisure, 
The  first  dew  on  the  first  flower; 
But  the  first  of  all  my  losses  was  the 
losing  of  the  bower. 

LXI. 

I  have  lost  the  dream  of  Doing, 
And  the  other  dream  of  Done; 
The  first  spring  in  the  Pursuing, 
The  first  pride  in  the  Begun, 
First  recoil  from  incompletion  in  the 
face  of  Avhat  is  won ; 

LXII. 

Exaltations  in  the  far  light 
Where  some  cottage  only  is; 
Mild  dejections  in  the  starlight. 
Which  the  saddei'-hearted  miss; 
And  the  child-cheek  blushing  scarlet 
for  the  A'ery  shame  of  bliss. 


i.xnr. 

I  have  lost  the  sound  child-sleeping 
Which  the  thunder  could  not  break; 
Something,  too,  of  the  strong  leaping 
Of  the  staglike  heart  awake, 
Which  the  pale  is  low  for  keeping 
in  the  road  it  ought  to  take. 

LXIV. 

Some  respect  to  social  fictions 
Has  been  also  lost  by  me. 
And  some  generous  genuflexions. 
Which  my  spirit  offered  free 
To  the  pleasant  old  conventions  of 
our  false  humanity. 

LXV. 

All  my  losses  did  I  tell  you, 
Ye  perchance  would  look  away, 
Ye  would  answer  me,  "  Farewell, 

you 
Make  sad  company  to-day. 
And  your  tears  are  falling  faster  than 
the  bitter  words  you  say." 

LXVI. 

For  God  placed  me  like  a  dial 
In  the  open  ground  with  power, 
And  my  heart  had  for  its  trial 
All  the  sun  and  all  the  shower; 
And  I  suffered    many   losses,  —  and 
my  first  was  of  the  bower. 

LXVII. 

Laugh  you  ?    If  that  loss  of  mine  be 
Of  no  heavy-seeming  weight,  — 
When  the  cone  falls  from  the  pine- 
tree, 
The  young  children  laugh  thereat ; 
Yet    tlie   wind   that  struck  it  riseth, 
and  the  tempest  shall  be  great. 

Lxvm. 

One  who  knew  me  in  my  childhood. 
In  the  glamour  and  the  game. 
Looking  on  me  long  and  mild,  would 
Jfever  know  me  for  the  same. 
Come,      unchanging       recollections, 
where  those  changes  overcame  ! 

LXIX. 

By  this  couch  I  weakly  lie  on 
While  I  count  my  memories. 
Through    the    fingers,   which,  still 

sighing, 
I  press  closely  on  mine  eyes, 
Clear  as  once  beneath  the  sunshine, 

I  behold  the  bower  arise. 


A  SONG  AGAINST  SINGING. 


373 


LXX. 

Springs  the  linden-tree  as  greenly, 
Stroked  with  light  adovvn  its  rind, 
And  the  ivy-leaves  serenely 
Each  in  either  intertwined; 
And  the  rose-trees  at  the  doorway  — 

they  have   neither  grown    nor 

pined. 

LXXI. 

From  those  overblown  faint  roses 
Not  a  leaf  appeareth  shed ; 
And  that  little  bud  discloses 
Not  a  thorn's  breadth  moi-e  of  red 
For  the  winters    and    the    summers 
which  have  passed  me  overhead. 

LXXU. 

And  that  music  overfloweth, 
Sudden  sweet,  the  sylvan  eaves ; 
Thrush,       or      nightingale,  —  who 

knoweth  ? 
Fay,  or  Faunus,  —  who  believes  ? 
But  my  heart  still  trembles  in  me  to 

the  trembling  of  the  leaves. 

LXXIII. 

Is  the  bower  lost  then  ?  who  sayeth 
That  the  bower  indeed  is  lost  ? 
Hark  I  my  spirit  in  it  prayeth 
Through  the  sunshine  and  the  frost; 
And  the  prayer  preserves  it  greenly 
to  the  last  and  uttermost, 

LXXI  v. 

Till  another  open  for  me 
In  God's  Eden-land  unknown, 
With  an  angel  at  the  doorway, 
White  with  gazing  at  his  throne; 
And  a  saint's  voice  in  the  palm-trees, 

singing,   "  All   is    lost  .  .  .  and 

won  f  " 


SONG  AGAINST  SING- 
ING. 


TO  E.  J.  H. 


They  bid  me  sing  to  thee, 
Thou  golden-haired  and  silver-voiced 

child. 
With  lips  by  no  worse  sigh  than  sleep's 

defiled, 


With  eyes  unknowing  how  tears  dim 
the  sight. 

And  feet  all  trembling  at  the  new  de- 
light 
Treaders  of  earth  to  be. 

It. 

Ah,  no  !  the  lark  may  bring 
A  song  to  thee  from  out  the  morning 

cloud. 
The  merry  river  from  its  lilies  bowed, 
The   brisk  rain  from  the  trees,   the 

lucky  wind 
That  half  doth  make  its  music,  half 
doth  find; 
But  I —  I  may  not  sing, 

IIL 

How  could  I  think  it  right, 
New-comer  on   our  earth  as.  Sweet, 

thou  art, 
To  bring  a  verse  from  out  an  human 

heart 
Made  heavy  with  accumulated  tears. 
And  cross  with  such  amount  of  weary 
years 
Thy  day-sum  of  delight? 

IV. 

Even  if  the  verse  were  said, 

Thou,   who  wouldst    clasp    thy  tiny 
hands  to  hear 

The  wind  or  rain,  gay  bird  or  river 
clear, 

Wouldst,  at  that  sound  of  sad  humani- 
ties. 

Upturn  thy  bright,  uncomprehending 
eyes. 
And  bid  me  play  instead. 


Therefore  no  song  of  mine. 

But    prayer   in    place    of    singing,  — 
prayer  that  would 

Commend  thee    to  the   new-creating 
God, 

Whose  gift  is  childhood's  heart  with- 
out its  stain 

Of    weakness,   ignorance,   and  chan- 
ging vain : 
That  gift  of  God  be  thine! 

VI. 

So  wilt  thou  aye  be  young. 
In  lovelier  childhood  than  thy  shining 

brow 
And   pretty  winning   accents   make 

thee  now ; 


374 


WINE   OF   CYPRUS. 


Yea,  sweeter  than  this  scarce  articu- 
late sound 

(How  sweet !)  of  "  father,"  "  mother," 
shall  be  found 
The  Abba  on  thy  tong^ue. 

VII. 

And  so,  as  years  shall  chase 

Each  other's  shadows,  thou  wilt  less 
resemble 

Thy  fellows  oi  the  earth  who  toil  and 
tremble, 

Tlian    him    thou    seest    not,  —  thine 
angel,  bold 

Yet  meek,  whose  ev«r-lifted  eyes  be- 
hold 
The  Ever-loving's  face. 


WINE  OF  CYPRUS. 


GIVEN  TO  ME  BY  H.  8.  BOTD,  AUTHOR  OF 
"  SELECT  PASSAGES  FROM  THE  OREEK 
FATHERS,"  ETC.,  TO  WHOM  THESE  STAN- 
ZAS ARE  ADDRESSED. 


1. 

If  old  Bacchus  were  the  speaker, 

He  would  tell  you,  with  a  sigh, 
Of  the  Cyprus  in  this  beaker 

I  am  sipping  like  a  fly,  — 
Like  a  tiy  or  gnat  on  Ida 

At  the  hour  of  goblet-pledge, 
By  queen  Juno  brushed  aside,  a 

Full    white    arm-sweep,   from 
edge. 


the 


u. 


Sooth,  the  drinking  should  be  ampler 

When  the  drink  is  so  divine, 
And   some  deep-mouthed  Greek  ex- 
emplar 

Would  become  your  Cyprus  wine: 
Cyclops'  mouth   might  plunge  aright 
in. 

While  his  one  eye  over-leered; 
Nor  too  large  were  mouth  of  Titan, 

Drinking  rivers  down  his  beard. 

III. 
Pan  might  dip  his  head  so  deep  in, 

That  his  ears  alone  pricked  out; 
Fauns  around  him  pressing,  leaping, 

Each  one  pointing  to  his  throat; 


While  the  Naiads,  like  Bacchantes, 
Wild,    with    urns    thrown    out    to 
waste, 
Cry,   "  O    earth,    that    thou  wouldst 
grant  us 
Springs  to  keep,  of  such  a  taste  !  " 


But  for  me,  I  am  not  worthy 

After  gods  and  Greeks  to  drink. 
And  my  lips  are  pale  and  earthy 

To  go  bathing  from  this  brink: 
Since  you  heard  them  speak  the  last 
time, 

They  have  faded  from  their  blooms, 
And  the  laughter  of  my  pastime 

Has  learnt  silence  at  the  tombs. 


Ah,  my  friend  !  the  antique  drinkers 

Crowned  the  cup,  and  crowned  the 
brow. 
Can  I  answer  the  old  thinkers 

In  the  forms  they  thought  of,  now  ? 
Who  will  fetch  from  garden-closes 

Some  new  garlands  while  I  speak, 
That    the    forehead,    crowned    with 
roses, 

May  strike  scarlet  down  the  cheek  ? 

VI. 

Do  not  mock  me  !  with  my  mortal, 

Suits  no  wreath  again,  indeed: 
I  am  sad-voiced  as  the  turtle 

Which  Anacreon  used  to  feed ; 
Yet,  as  that  same  bird  demurely 

Wet  her  beak  in  cup  of  his. 
So,  without  a  garland,  surely 

I  may  touch  the  brim  of  this. 


Go  !  let  others  praise  the  Chian ; 

This  is  soft  as  Muse's  string; 
This  is  tawny  as  Rhea's  lion ; 
This  is  rapid  as  his  spring; 
Bright  as  Paphia's  eyes  e'er  met  us, 

Light  as  ever  trod  her  feet; 
And  the  brown  bees  of  Hymettus 

Make  their  honey  not  so  sweet. 

VIII. 

Very  copious  are  my  praises, 
Though  I  sip  it  like  a  fly. 

Ah  1  but,  sipping,  times  and  place 
Change  before  me  suddenly. 


WINE   OF   CYPRUS. 


375 


As  Ulysses'  old  libation 

Drew  the  ghosts  from  every  part, 
So  your  Cyprus  wine,  dear  Grecian, 

Stirs  the  Hades  of  mv  heart. 


IX. 

And  I  think  of  those  long  mornings 

Which  my  thought  goes  far  to  seek, 
"When,  betwixt  the  folio's  turnings, 

Solemn  flowed  the  rhythmic  Greek: 
Past  the  pane  the  mountain  spread- 
ing. 

Swept     the     sheep-bell's     tinkling 
noise. 
While  a  girlish  voice  was  reading 

Somewhat  low  for  ais  and  ois. 


X. 

Then  what  golden  hours  were  for  ns  ! 

While  we  sate  together  there; 
How  the  white  vests  of  the  chorus 

Seemed  to  wave  up  a  live  air  ! 
How  the  cothurns  trod  majestic 

Down  the  deep  iambic  lines. 
And  the  rolling  auapestic 

Curled  like  vapor  over  shrines  ! 


XI. 

Oh,  our  ^schylns,  the  thunderous  ! 

How  he  drove  the  bolted  breath 
Tlirough  the  cloud,  to  wedge  it  pon- 
derous 

In  tlie  gnarled  oak  beneath  ! 
Oh,  our  Sophocles,  the  royal ! 

Who  was  born  to  monarch's  place. 
And  who  made  the  whole  world  loyal, 

Less  by  kingly  power  than  grace. 


xn. 

Our  Euripides,  the  human. 

With  his  droppings  of  warm  tears, 
And  his  touches  of  things  common 

Till  they  rose  to  touch  the  spheres  ! 
Our  Theocritus,  our  Bion, 

And  our  Pindar's  shining  goals  !  — 
These  were  cup-bearers  undying. 

Of  the  wine  that's  meant  for  souls. 

XIII. 

And  my  Plato,  the  divine  one. 
If  men  know  the  gods  aright 

By  their  motions  as  they  shine  on 
With  a  glorioius  trail  of  light ! 


And  your  noble  Christian  bishops, 
Who    mouthed     grandly    the     last 
Greek, 

Though  the  sponges  on  their  hyssops 
Were  distent  with  wine  —  too  weak. 

XIV. 

Yet  your  Chrysostom,  you  praised  him 

As  a  liberal  mouth  of  gold; 
And  your  Basil,  you  upraised  him 

To  the  height  of  speakers  old : 
And  we  both  praised  Heliodorns 

For  his  secret  of  pure  lies,  — 
Who  forged  first  his  linked  stories 

In  the  heat  of  lady's  eyes. 

XV. 

And  we  botli  praised  your  Synesius 

For  the  fire  shot  up  his  odes, 
Though  the  Church  was  scarce  propi- 
tious 

As  he  whistled  dogs  and  gods. 
And  wt  both  praised  Nazianzen 

For  the  fervid  heart  and  speech; 
Only  I  eschewed  his  glancing 

At  the  lyre  hung  out  of  reach. 

xvi. 

Do  you  mind  that  deed  of  Ate 

Which  you  bound  me  to  so  fast, 
Reading  "  De  Virginitate," 

From  the  first  line  to  the  last  ? 
How  I  said  at  ending,  solemn. 

As  I  turned  and  looked  at  you, 
That  St.  Simeon  on  the  column 

Had  had  somewhat  less  to  do  ? 

xvn. 

For  we  sometimes  gently  wrangled, 

Very  gently,  be  it  said. 
Since  our  thoughts  were  disentangled 

By  no  breaking  of  the  thread  ; 
And  I  charged  you  with  extortions 

On  the  nobler  fames  of  old  ; 
Ay,  and  sometimes  thought  your  Per- 
sons 

Stained  the  purple  they  would  fold. 

xvui. 

For  the  rest  —  a  my.stic  moaning 

Kept  Cassandra  at  the  gate, 
With  wild  eyes  the  vision  shone  in, 

And  wide  nostrils  scenting  fate. 
And  Prometheus,  bound  in  passion 

By  brute  force  to  the  blind  stone, 
Showed  us  looks  of  invocation 

Turned  to  ocean  and  the  sun. 


376 


A   RHAPSODY   OF  LIFE'S  PROGRESS. 


XIX. 

And  Medrea  we  saw  burning 

At  her  nature's  planted  stake; 
And  proud  CEdipus  late-scorning 

While  the  cloud  came  on  to  break  — 
"While  the  cloud  came  on  slow,  slower, 

Till  he  stood  discrowned,  resigned  ! 
But  the  reader's  voice  dropped  lower 

When  the  poet  called  him  blind. 

XX. 

Ah,  my  gossip!  you  were  older, 

And  more  learned,  and  a  man  ; 
Yet  that  shadow,  the  infolder 

Of  your  quiet  eyelids,  ran 
Both  our  spirits  to  one  level ; 

And  I  turned  from  hill  and  lea 
And  the  summer-sun's  green  revel, 

To  your  eyes  that  could  not  see. 

XXI. 

Now  Christ  bless  you  with  the  one 
light 

Which  goes  shining  night  and  day  ! 
May  the  flowers  which  grow  in  sun- 
light 

Shed  their  fragrance  in  your  way  ! 
Is  it  not  right  to  remember 

All  your  kindness,  friend  of  mine. 
When  we  two  sate  in  the  chamber. 

And  the  poets  poured  us  wine  ? 

XXII. 

So,  to  come  back  to  the  drinking 

Of  this  Cyprus,  —  it  is  well; 
But  those  memories,  to  my  thinking 

Make  a  better  oenomel; 
And,  whoever  be  the  speaker, 

None  can  murmur  with  a  sigh 
That,  in  drinking  from  that  beaker, 

I  am  sipping  like  a  fly. 


A 


RHAPSODY  OF  LIFE'S 
PROGRESS. 


'  Fill  all  the  stops  of  life  with  tuneful  breath." 
Poems  on  Man,  by  Cornelius  Mathews.  ^ 


We  are  borne  into  life:  it  is  sweet,  it 

is  strange. 
We  lie  still   on  the  knee  of  a  mild 

mystery 

'  A  small  volume,  by  an  American  poet, — 
as  remarkable  in  thought  and  manner  for  a 


Which  smiles  with  a  change; 
But  we    doubt    not  of    changes,   we 

know  not  of  spaces; 
The  heavens  seem  as  near  as  our  own 

mother's  face  is. 
And  we  think  we  could  touch  all  the 

stars  that  we  see ; 
And  the  milk  of  our  mother  is  white 

on  our  mouth; 
And  with  small  childish  hands  we  are 

turning  around 
The  apple  of  life  which  another  has 

found : 
It  is  warm  with  our  touch,  not  with 

sun  of  the  south. 
And  we  count,  as  we  turn  it,  the  red 

side  for  four. 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  sweet,  thou  art  strange 

evermore  ! 

11. 

Then  all  things  look  strange  in  the 

pure  golden  ether; 
We  walk  through  the  gardens  with 
hands  linked  together. 
And  the  lilies  look    large   as   the 
trees; 
And  as  loud  as  the  birds  sing  the 

bloom-loving  bees; 
And  the  birds  sing  like    angels,  so 

mystical-fine. 
And    the    cedars    are    brushing    the 

archangels'  feet. 
And  time  is  eternity,  love  is  divine, 

And  the  world  is  complete. 
Now,  God   bless    the   child  —  father, 
mother,  respond  ! 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet ! 

m. 

Then  we  leap  on  the  earth  with  the 

armor  of  youth. 
And  the  earth  rings  again; 
And  we  breathe  out,  "  O  beauty  ! " 

we  cry  out,  "  O  truth  !  " 
And  the  bloom  of  our  lips  drops  with 

wine. 
And  our  blood  runs  amazed  'neath 

the  calm  hyaline: 
The  earth  cleaves  to  the  foot,  the  sun 

burns  to  the  brain, — 
What  is  this  exultation  ?  and  what 

this  despair  ? 
The  strong  pleasure  is  smiting   the 

nerves  into  pain, 

vital  sinewy  vigor,  as  the  right  arm  of  Path- 
finder.   1844. 


A   RHAPSODY   OF  LIFE'S  PROGRESS. 


377 


And  we  drop    from  the  fair  as   we 
climb  to  the  fair, 
And  we  lie  in  a  trance  at  its  feet; 
And  the  breath   of    an    angel    cold- 
piercing  the  air 
Breathes    fresh    on    our    faces    in 
swoon, 
And  we  think  him  so  near,  he  is  this 

side  the  sun. 
And  we  wake  to  a  whisper  self-mur- 
mured and  fond, 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet ! 


IV. 

And  the  winds  and  the  waters  in  pas- 
toral measures 

Go  winding  around  us,  with  roll  up- 
on roll, 

Till  the  soul  lies  within  in  a  circle  of 
pleasures 
Which  hideth  the  soul ; 

And  we  run  with  the  stag,  and  we 
leap  with  the  horse, 

And  we  swim  with  the  fish  through 
the  broad  water-course, 

And  we  strike  with   the  falcon,  and 
hunt  with  the  hound. 

And  the  joy  which  is  in  us  flies  out 
by  a  wound. 

And  we  shout  so  aloud,  "We  exult, 
we  rejoice," 

That  we  lose  the  low  moan  of  our 
brothers  around ; 

And  we  shout  so  adeep  down  crea- 
tion's profound. 
We  are  deaf  to  God's  voice. 

And   we    bind    the    rose-garland    on 
forehead  and  ears. 
Yet  we  are  not  ashamed ; 

And  the  dew  of  the  roses  that  run- 
neth unblamed 

•   Down  our  cheeks  is  not  taken  for 
tears. 

Help  us,  God  !  trust  us,  man!  love  us, 
woman  !     "I  hold 

Thy  small  head  in  my  hands,  —  with 
its  grapelets  of  gold 

Growing  bright  through  my  fingers, 
—  like  altar  for  oath, 

'Neath  the  vast  golden  spaces    like 
witnessing  faces 

That  watch  the  eternity  strong  in  the 
troth  — 
I  love  thee,  I  leave  thee, 
Live  for  thee,  die  for  thee  ! 
I  prove  thee,  deceive  thee, 
Undo  evermore  thee ! 


Help  me,  God  !  slay  me,  man  !  —  one 

is  mourning  for  both." 
And  we  stand  up,  though  young,  near 

the  funeral-sheet 
Which    covers    old    Cresar    and    old 

Pharamond ; 
And  death  is  so  nigh   us,  life  cools 

from  its  heat. 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Art  thou  fair,  art  thou  sweet  ? 


Then  we  act  to  a  purpose,  we  spring 

up  erect; 
We  will  tame  the  wild  mouths  of  the 

wilderness-steeds ; 
We  will  plough  up  the  deep  in  the 

ships  double-decked; 
We  will  build  the  great  cities,  and  do 

the  great  deeds, 
Strike  the  steel  upon  steel,  strike  the 

soul  upon  soul. 
Strike  the  dole  on  the  weal,  overcom- 


Let 


ing  the  dole. 


the  cloud   meet  the  cloud  in  a 
grand  thunder-roll ! 
"  While  the  eagle  of  thought  rides  the 

tempest  in  scorn. 
Who  cares  if  the  lightning  is  burning 
the  corn  ? 
Let  us  sit  on  the  thrones 
In  a  purple  sublimity, 
And  grind  down  men's  bones 
To  pale  unanimity. 
Speed  me,  God  !  serve  me,  man  !  I  am 

god  over  men ; 
When  I    speak    in    my  cloud,   none 
shall  answer  again: 
'Neath  the  stripe  and  the  bond, 
Lie  and  mourn  at  my  feet !  " 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou    art    strange,    thou    art 
sweet ! 

VI. 

Then  we  grow  into  thought,  and  with 
inward  ascensions 
Touch  the  bounds  of  our  being. 
We  lie  in  the    dark   here,   swathed 

doubly  around 
With  our  sensual  relations  and  social 

conventions, 
Yet  are  'ware  of  a  sight,  yet  are  'ware 
of  a  sound 
Beyond  hearing  and  seeing; 
Are  aware  that  a  Hades  rolls  deep  on 
all  sides 
With  its  infinite  tides 


T 


378 


A   RHAPSODY   OF  LIFE'S  PROGRESS. 


About  and  above  us,  until  the  strong 

arch 
Of    our  life  creaks  and  bends   as   if 

ready  for  falling, 
And  through  the  dim  rolling  we  hear 

the  sweet  calling 
Of  si)irits  that  speak  in  a  soft  under- 
tongue 
The  sense  of  the  mystical  march. 
And  we  cry  to  them  softly,  "  Come 

nearer,  come  nearer, 
And  lift  up  the  lap  of  this  dark,  and 
speak  clearer. 
And  teach  us  the  song  that  ye 
sung !  ' ' 
And  we  smile  in  our  thought  as  they 

answer  or  no; 
For  to  dream  of  a  sweetness  is  sweet 
as  to  know. 
Wonders  breathe  in  our  face, 
And  we  ask  not  their  name ; 
Love  takes  all  the  blame 
Of  the  world's  prison-place ; 
And  we  sing  back  the  songs  as  we 

guess  them,  aloud; 
And  we  send  up  the  lark  of  our  mu- 
sic that  cuts 
Untired  through  the  cloud. 
To  beat  with  its  wings  at  the  lattice 

heaven  shuts: 
Yet  the  angels   look  down,  and  the 
mortals  look  up, 
As  the  little  wings  beat; 
And  the  iioet  is   blessed  with  their 

pity  or  hope. 
'Twixt  tiie  heavens  and  the  earth  can 
a  poet  despond  ? 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet ! 


vn. 

Then  we  wring  from  our  souls  their 

applicative  strength. 
And  bend  to  the  cord  the  strong  bow 

of  our  ken. 
And,  bringing  our  lives  to  the  level  of 

others, 
Hold  the  cup  we  have  filled  to  their 

uses  at  length. 
"  Help  me,  God  !  love  me,  man  !  I  am 

man  among  men. 
And  my  life  is  a  pledge 
Of  the  ease  of  another's  !  " 

the  fire  and  the  water  we  drive 

out  the  steam 
With  a  rush  and  a  roar  and  the  speed 

of  a  dream ; 


And  the  car  without  horses,  the  car 
without  wings. 
Roars  onward,  and  flies 
On  its  gray  iron  edge 
'Neath  the  heat  of  a  thought  sitting 

still  in  our  eyes: 
And  our  hand  knots  in  air,  with  the 

bridge  that  it  flings, 
Two  peaks  far  disrupted    by  ocean 

and  skies, 
And,  lifting  a  fold  of  the  smooth-flow- 
ing Thames, 
Draws  under  the  world  with  its  tur- 
moils and  pothers. 
While  the  swans  float  on  softly,  un- 
touched in  their  calms 
By  humanity's  hum  at  the  root  of  the 

springs. 
And  with  reachlngs  of  thought  we 
reach  down  to  the  deeps 
Of  the  souls  of  our  brothers. 
We  teach  them  full  words  with  our 

slow-moving  lips, 
"God,"       "Liberty,"       "Truth,"  — 

which  they  hearken  and  think. 
And  work  into  harmony, link  upon  link, 
Till  the  silver  meets  round  the  earth 

gelid  and  dense. 
Shedding  sparks  of  electric  respond- 
ing intense 
On  the  dark  of  eclipse. 
Then  we  hear  through  the  silence  and 
glory  afar. 
As  from  shores  of  a  star 
In  aphelion,  the  new  generations  that 

cry 
Disinthralled  by  our  voice  to  harmo- 
nious reply, 
"  God,"  "  Liberty,"  "  Truth  !  " 
We  are  glorious  forsooth, 
And  our  name  has  a  seat. 
Though     the     shroud     should    be 
donned. 
O  Life,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  strange,  thou  art  sweet  ! 

VIII. 

Help  me,  God  !  help  me,  man  !  I  am 

low,  I  am  weak; 
Death  loosens  my  sinews,  and  creeps 

in  my  veins; 
My  body  is  cleft  by  these  wedges  of 
pains 
From  my  spirit's  serene. 
And  I  feel  the  externe  and  insensate 
creep  in 
On  my  organized  clay ; 
I  sob  not,  nor  shriek. 
Yet  I  faint  fast  away: 


\ 


A   LAY   OF   THE   EARLY  ROSE. 


379 


I    am    strong    in    the    spirit,    deep- 

thoughted,  clear-eyed; 
1  could  walk,  step  for  step,  with  an 
angel  beside, 
On  the  heaven-heights  of  truth. 
Oh,  the  soul  keeps  its  youth; 
But  the  body  faints  sore,  it  is  tried 

in  the  race, 
It  sinks  from  the  chariot  ere  reach- 
ing the  goal, 
It  is  weak,  it  is  cold, 
The  rein  drops  from  its  hold, 
It  sinks  back  with  the  death  in   its 
face. 
On,  chariot !  on,  soul ! 
Ye  are  all  the  more  fleet: 
Be  alone  at  the  goal 
Of  the  strange  and  the  sweet ! 

IX. 

Love  us,  God  !  love  us  man !  we  be- 
lieve, we  achieve  ! 
Let  us  love,  let  us  live; 
For  the  acts  correspond ; 
"We  are  glorious,  and  die; 
And  again  on  the  knee  of  a  mild  mys- 
tery 
That  smiles  with  a  change, 
Here  we  lie. 
O  Death,  O  Beyond, 
Thou  art  sweet,  thou  art  strange  ! 


A  LAY  OF  THE  EARLY 
ROSE. 


'  Discordance  that  can  accord." 

ROMAUNT  OF   THE   KOSE. 


A  ROSE  once  grew  within 

A  garden  April-green, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
And  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

A  white  rose  delicate 
On  a  tall  bough  and  straight: 
Early-comer,  early-comer. 
Never  waiting  for  the  summer. 

Her  pretty  gestes  did  win 
South  winds  to  let  her  in, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
All  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 


"  For  if  I  wait,"  said  she, 

"  Till  time  for  roses  be. 
For  the  moss-rose  and  the  musk-rose. 
Maiden-blush  and  royal-dusk  rose, 

■'  What  glory,  then,  for  me 

In  such  a  company  ? 
Roses  plenty,  roses  plenty. 
And  one  nightingale  for  twenty  ! 

"  Nay,  let  me  in,"  said  she, 

"  Before  the  rest  are  free. 
In  my  loneness,  in  my  loneness, 
All  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

"  For  I  would  lonelj'  stand, 

Uplifting  my  white  hand, 
On  a  mission,  on  a  mission, 
To  declare  the  coming  vision. 

"  Upon  which  lifted  sign 
What  worship  will  be  mine  ! 
What  addressing,  what  caressing, 
And   what    thanks    and    praise    and 
blessing ! 

"  A  windlike  joy  will  rush 
Through  every  tree  and  bush. 
Bonding  softly  in  affection 
And  spontaneous  benediction. 

"  Insects,  that  only  may 

Live  in  a  sunbright  ray. 
To  my  whiteness,  to  my  whiteness. 
Shall  be  drawn  as  to  a  brightness, 

"  And  evei"y  moth  and  bee 

Approach  me  reverently, 
"Wheeling  o'er  me,  wheeling  o'er  me, 
Coronals  of  motioned  glory. 

"  Three  larks  shall  leave  a  cloud. 
To  my  whiter  beauty  vowed. 
Singing  gladly  all  the  moontide, 
Never  waiting  for  the  suntide. 

"  Ten  nightingales  shall  flee 
Their  woods  for  love  of  me. 
Singing  sadly  all  the  suntide, 
Never  waiting  for  the  moontide. 

"  I  ween  the  very  skies 
Will  look  down  with  surprise, 
When  below  on  earth  they  see  me 
With  my  starry  aspect  dreamy. 

"  And  earth  will  call  her  flowers 
To  hasten  out  of  doors, 


380 


A   LAY   OF  THE   EARLY  ROSE. 


By  their  courtesies  and  sweet-smell- 
ing, 
To  give  grace  to  my  foretelling." 

So  praying,  did  she  win 

South  winds  to  let  her  in, 
In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
And  the  fairer  for  that  oneness. 

But  ah,  alas  for  her  ! 

No  thing  did  minister 
To  her  praises,  to  her  praises, 
More  than  might  unto  a  daisy's. 

No  tree  nor  bush  was  seen 

To  boast  a  perfect  green, 
Scarcely  having,  scarcely  having, 
One  leaf  broad  enough  for  waving. 

The  little  flies  did  crawl 

Along  the  southern  wall. 
Faintly  shifting,  faintly  shifting. 
Wings  scarce  long  enough  for  lifting. 

The  lark,  too  high  or  low, 

I  ween,  did  miss  her  so. 
With  his  nest  down  in  the  gorses. 
And  his  song  in  the  star-courses. 

The  nightingale  did  please 

To  loiter  beyond  seas; 
Guess  him  in  ifche  Happy  islands, 
Learning  music  from  the  silence. 

Only  the  bee,  forsooth. 
Came  in  the  place  of  both, 
Doing  honor,  doing  honor, 
To  the  honey-dews  upon  her. 

The  skies  looked  coldly  down 

As  on  a  royal  crown; 
Then,  with  drop  for  drop,  at  leisure, 
They  began  to  rain  for  pleasure. 

Whereat  the  earth  did  seem 

To  waken  from  a  dream. 
Winter-frozen,  winter-frozen. 
Her  unquiet  eyes  unclosing,  — 

Said  to  the  Rose,  "  Ha,  snow  ! 

And  art  thou  fallen  so  ?  — 
Thou,  who  wast  enthroned  stately 
All  along  my  mountains  lately  ? 

"  Holla,  thou  world-wide  snow  ! 

And  art  thou  wasted  so, 
With  a  little  bough  to  catch  thee, 
And  a  little  bee  to  watch  thee  ?  " 


—  Poor  Rose,  to  be  misknown  ! 
Would  she  had  ne'er  been  blown, 

In  her  loneness,  in  her  loneness, 
All  the  sadder  for  that  oneness. 

Some  word  she  tried  to  say, 
Some  no  ...  ah,  well-away  ! 
But  the  passion  did  o'ercome  her, 
And  the  fair,  frail  leaves  dropped  from 
her, 

—  Dropped  from  her,  fair  and  mute, 
Close  to  a  poet's  foot, 

Who  beheld  them,  smiling  slowly. 
As  at  something  sad,  yet  holy,  — 

Said,  "  Verily,  and  thus 

It  chances  too  with  us 
Poets,  singing  sweetest  snatches, 
While    that     deaf     men     keep     the 
watches ; 

"  Vaunting  to  come  before 

Our  own  age  evermore. 
In  a  loneness,  in  a  loneness, 
And  the  nobler  for  that  oneness. 

"  Holy  in  voice  and  heart, 

To  high  ends  set  apart: 
All  unmated,  all  unmated, 
Just  because  so  consecrated. 

"  But  if  alone  we  be. 

Where  is  our  empery  ? 
And,  if  none  can  reach  our  stature. 
Who  can  mete  our  lofty  nature  ? 

"  What  bell  will  yield  a  tone, 

Swung  in  the  air  alone  ? 
If  no  brazen  clapper  bringing. 
Who  can  hear  the  chimed  ringing  ? 

"  What  angel  but  would  seem 
To  sensual  eyes  ghost-dim  ? 

And,  without  assimilation, 

Vain  is  iuterpenetratiou. 

"  And  thus,  what  can  we  do, 

Poor  rose  and  poet  too. 
Who  both  antedate  our  mission 
In  an  unprepared  season  ? 

"  Drop,  leaf  !  be  silent,  song  ! 

Cold  things  we  come  among: 
We  must  warm  them,  we  must  warm 

them, 
Ere  we  ever  lioije  to  charm  them." 


I     ^  I  ■  I  ^ 


THE  POET  AND   THE  BIRD. 


381 


"  Howbeit "  (here  his  face 
Lightened  around  the  place, 
So  to  mark  the  outward  turning 
Of  its  spirit's  inward  burning) 

"  Something  it  is,  to  hold 

In  God's  worlds  manifold, 
First  revealed  to  creature-duty, 
Some  new  form  of  his  mild  beauty 

"  Whether  that  form  respect 

The  sense  or  intellect, 
Holy  be,  in  mood  or  meadow, 
Tlie  chief  beauty's  sign  and  shadow  ! 

"  Holy  in  me  and  thee, 

Rose  fallen  from  the  tree, 
Though  the  world  stand  dumb  around 

us, 
All  unable  to  expound  us 

"  Though  none  us  deign  to  bless. 

Blessed  are  we,  nathless; 
Blessed  still  and  consecrated 
In  that,  rose,  we  were  created. 

"  Oh,  shame  to  poet's  lays 
Sung  for  the  dole  of  praise,  — 

Hoarsely  sung  upon  the  highway, 

"With  that  obolum  da  mihi . 

"  Shame,  shame,  to  poet's  soul, 

Pining  for  such  a  dole, 
When  heaven-chosen  to  inherit 
The  high  throne  of  a  chief  spirit ! 

"  Sit  still  upon  your  thrones, 

O  ye  poetic  ones  ! 
And  if,  sooth,  the  world  decry  you, 
Let  it  pass  unchallenged  by  you. 

"  Ye  to  yourselves  suffice, 

Without  its  flatteries. 
Self-contentedly  approve  you 
Unto  Him  who  sits  above  you,  — 

' '  In  prayers  that  upward  mount 
Like  to  a  fair-sunned  fount, 
Which,  in  gushing  back  upon  you. 
Hath  an  upper  music  won  you,  — 

"  In  faith,  that  still  perceives 
No  rose  can  shed  her  leaves, 
Far  less,  poet  fall  from  mission. 
With  an  uufullilled  fruition, — 

"  In  hope,  that  apprehends 
An  end  beyond  these  ends, 


And  great  uses  rendered  diily 

By  the  meanest  song  sung  truly,  — 

"  In  thanks,  for  all  the  good 

By  poets  understood, 
For  the  sound  of  seraphs  moving 
Down  the  hidden  depths  of  loving,  — 

"  For  sights  of  things  away 
Through  fissures  of  the  clay. 
Promised  things  which  shall  be  given 
And  sung  over  up  in  heaven,  — 

"  For  life  so  lovely  vain, 

For  death,  which  breaks  the  chain, 
For  this  sense  of  present  sweetness. 
And  this  yearning  to  completeness  !  " 


THE    POET    AND   THE 
BIRD. 


A  FABLE. 


I. 

Said   a  people  to  a  poet,  "Go  out 
from  among  us  straightway  ! 
While    we     are    thinking    earthly 
things,  thou  singest  of  divine: 
There's  a  little  fair  brown  nightin- 
gale who,  sitting  in  the  gateway, 
Makes  fitter  music  to  our  ear  than 
any  song  of  thine  I  " 


u. 


The 


poet    went    out   weeping ;    the 
nightingale  ceased  chanting: 

"  Now  wherefore,  O  thou  nightin- 
gale,    is     all     thy     sweetness 
done?" 
—  "I  cannot  sing  my  earthly  things, 
the  heavenly  poet  wanting, 

Whose  highest    harmony  includes 
the  lowest  under  sun." 

III. 

The  poet  went  out  weeping,  and  died 
abroad,  bereft  there; 
The  bird  flew  to  his  grave,  and  died 
amid  a  thousand  wails: 
And  when  I  last  came  by  the  place,  I 
swear  the  music  left  there 
Was  only  of  the  poet's  song,  and 
not  the  nightingale's. 


i 


382 


THE   CRY   OF   THE   HUMAN. 


THE  CRY   OF  THE 
HUMAN. 


"  There  is  no  God,"  the  foolish  saith, 

But  none,  "  There  is  no  sorrow;  " 
And  Nature  oft  the  cry  of  faith 

In  bitter  need  will  borrow. 
Eyes  which  the  preacher  could   not 
school 

By  wayside  graves  are  raised ; 
And  lips  say,  "  God  be  pitiful," 

Who  ne'er  said,  "  God  be  praised." 
Be  pitiful,  O  God  ' 


n. 

The  tempest  stretches  from  the  steep 

The  shadow  of  its  coming; 
The  beasts  grow  tame,  and  near  us 
creep, 
As  help  were  in  the  human: 
Yet,  while  the  cloud-wheels  roll  and 
grind. 
We  spirits  tremble  under  — 
The  hills  have  echoes;  but  we  find 
No  answer  for  the  thunder. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 


III. 

The  battle  hurtles  on  the  plains, 

Earth  feels  new  scythes  upon  her; 
We  reap  our  brothers  for  the  wains. 

And  call  the  harvest  — honor: 
Draw  face  to  face,  from  line  to  line, 

One  image  all  inherit, 
Then  kill,  curse  on,  by  that  same  sign. 

Clay  — clay,  and  spirit  —  spirit. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 


IV. 

The  plague  runs  festering  through  the 
town. 

And  never  a  bell  is  tolling. 
And  corpses,  jostled  'neath  the  moon. 

Nod  to  the  dead-cart's  rolling; 
The  young  child  calleth  for  the  cup, 

The  strong  man  brings  it  weeping. 
The  mother  from  her  babe  looks  up, 

And  shrieks  away  its  sleeping. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  1 


V 

The  plague  of  gold  strikes  far  and 
near, 
And  deep  and  strong  it  enters; 
This  purple  chimar  which  we  wear, 
Makes  madder  than  the  centaur's: 
Our  thoughts  grow  blank,  our  words 
grow  strange. 
We  cheer  the  pale  gold-diggers, 
Each    soul    is    worth    so    much    on 
'Change, 
And  marked,  like  sheep,  with  fig- 
ures. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  1 


VI. 

The  curse  of  gold  upon  the  land 

The  lack  of  bread  enforces; 
The  rail-cars   snort    from    strand    to 
strand. 
Like  more  of  death's  white  horses; 
The  rich  preach  "  rights  "  and  "  future 
days," 
And  hear  no  angel  scofling; 
The  i)oor  die  mute,  with  starving  gaze 
On  corn-ships  in  the  offing. 

Be  pitiful,  OGod  ! 

VII. 

We  meet  together  at  the  feast, 

To  private  mirth  betake  us ; 
We  stare  down  in  the  winecup,  lest 

Some  vacant  chair  should  shake  us; 
We    name    delight,    and     pledge    it 
round  — 

"  It  shall  be  ours  to-morrow  !  " 
God's  seraphs,  do  your  voices  sound 

As  sad  in  naming  sorrow  ? 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  I 

viri. 

We  sit  together,  with  the  skies. 

The  steadfast  skies,  above  us. 
We  look  into  each  other's  eyes, 

'■  And  how  long  will  you  love  us  ?  " 
The  eyes  grow  dim  with  prophecy, 

The  voices,  low  and  breathless,  — 
"  Till  death  us  part !  "  O  words,  to  be 

Our  best,  for  love  the  deathless  ! 
Be  pitiful.  O  God  ! 

IX. 
We  tremble  by  the  harmless  bed 

Of  one  loved  and  departed; 
Our  tears  drop  on  the  lips  that  said 

Last  night,  "  Be  stronger-hearted  1 " 


A   PORTRAIT. 


383 


O  God,  to  clasp  those  fiugers  close, 
And  yet  to  feel  so  lonely  ! 

To  see  a  light  upon  such  brows, 
Which  is  the  daylight  only  ! 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 


X. 

The  happy  children  come  to  us, 

And  look  up  in  our  faces; 
They  ask  us,  "  Was  it  thus,  and  thus, 

When  we  were  in  their  places  ?  " 
We  cannot  speak ;  we  see  anew 

The  hills  we  used  to  live  in. 
And   feel  our   mother's    smile    press 
through 

The  kisses  she  is  giving. 

Be  pitiful,  OGodl 


XI. 

We  pray  together  at  the  kirk 

For  mercy,  mercy  solely: 
Hands  wearv  with  the  evil  work. 

We  lift  them  to  the  Holy. 
The  corpse  is  calm  below  our  knee. 

Its  spirit  bright  before  Thee : 
Between  them,  worse  than  either,  we. 

Without  the  rest  or  glory. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 


XII. 

We  leave  the  communing  of  men. 

The  murmur  of  the  passions. 
And  live  alone,  to  live  again 

With  endless  generations: 
Are  we  so  brave  ?    The  sea  and  sky 

In  silence  lift  their  mirrors, 
And,  glassed  therein,  our  spirits  high 

Recoil  from  their  own  terrors. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 


XIII. 

We  sit  on  hills  our  childhood  wist. 
Woods,  hamlets,  streams,   behold- 
ing: 
The  sun  strikes  through  the  farthest 
mist 
The  city's  spire  to  golden: 
The  city's  golden  spire  it  was 
When  hope  and  health  were  strong- 
est; 
But  now  it  is  the  churchyard  grass 
We  look  upon  the  longest. 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 


xiv. 

And  soon  all  vision  waxeth  dull; 

Men  whisper,  "  He  is  dying:  " 
We  cry  no  more,  "  Be  pitiful  I  " 

We  have  no  strength  for  crying  — 
No  strength,  no  need.    Then,  soul  of 
mine, 

Look  up,  and  triumph  rather: 
Lo,  in  the  depth  of  God's  divine 

"The  Son  adjures  the  Father, 

Be  pitiful,  O  God  ! 


A  PORTRAIT. 


'  One  name  is  Elizabeth." —  Bkn  Jokson. 


I  WILL  paint  her  as  I  see  her. 
Ten  times  have  the  lilies  blown 
Since  she  looked  upon  the  sun. 

And  her  face  is  lily-clear, 
Lily-shaped,  and  dropped  in  duty 
To  the  law  of  its  own  beauty. 

Oval  cheeks  encolored  faintly. 
Which  a  trail  of  golden  hair 
Keeps  from  fading  off  to  air; 

And  a  forehead  fair  and  saintly, 
Which  two  blue  eyes  undershine, 
Like  meek  prayers  before  a  shrine. 

Face  and  figure  of  a  child, 
Though  too  calm,  you   think,  and 

tender. 
For  the  childhood  you  would  lend 

her. 

Yet  child-simple,  undefiled, 
Frank,  obedient,  waiting  still 
On  the  turnings  of  your  will. 

Moving  light,  as  all  young  things,  — 
As  young  birds,  or  early  wheat 
When  the  wind  blows  over  it. 

Only,  free  from  flutterings 
Of  loud  mirth  that  scorneth  mea.s- 

ure, 
Taking  love  for  her  chief  pleasure. 


384 


CONFESSIONS. 


Choosing  pleasures  for  the  rest, 
"Which  come  softly,  just  as  she 
"When  she  nestles  at  your  knee. 


Quiet  talk  she  liketh  best, 
In  a  bower  of  gentle  looks, 
"Watering  flowers,  or  reading  books. 


And  her  voice,  it  murmurs  lowly. 
As  a  silver  stream  may  run, 
"Which  yet  feels,  you  feel,  the  sun. 


And  her  smile,  it  seems  half  holy, 
As  if  drawn  from  thoughts  more  far 
Than  our  common  jestings  are. 

And,  if  any  poet  knew  her. 
He  would  sing  of  her  with  falls 
Used  in  lovely  madrigals. 


And,  if  any  painter  drew  her, 
He  would  paint  her  unaware 
"With  a  halo  round  the  hair. 


And,  if  reader  read  the  poem. 
He    would    whisper,    "  You 

done  a 
Consecrated  little  Una." 


have 


And  a  dreamer  (did  you  show  him 
That  same  picture)  would  exclaim, 
"  'Tis  my  angel,  with  a  name  ! " 

And  a  stranger,  when  he  sees  her 
In  the  street  even,  smileth  stilly, 
Just  as  you  would  at  a  lily. 


And  all  voices  that  address  her 
Soften,  sleeken  every  word, 
As  if  speaking  to  a  bird. 


And  all  fancies  yearn  to  cover 
The  hard  eartJti  whereon  she  passes, 
"With  the  thymy-scented  grasses. 


And  all  hearts  do  pray,  "God  love 
her!" 
Ay,  and  always,  in  good  sooth, 
We  may  all  be  sure  He  doth. 


CONFESSIONS. 


Face    to    face    in  my  chamber,   my 

silent  chamber,  I  saw  her: 
God  and  she  and  I  only,  there  I  sate 

down  to  draw  her 
Soul  through  the  clefts  of  confession, 
"  Speak,  I  am  holding  thee  fast. 
As  the  angel  of  resurrection  shall  do 
it  at  the  last !  " 
"  My  cup  is  blood-red 
"With  my  sin,"  she  said, 
"  And  I  pour  it  out  to  the  bitter  lees, 
As  if  the  angels  of  judgment  stood 
over  me  strong  at  the  last, 
Or  as  thou  wert  as  these." 

II. 

When  God  smote  his  hands  together, 

and  struck  out  thysoul  asaspark 

Into  the  organized  glory  of  things, 

from  deeps  of  the  dark, 
Say,    didst    thou    shine,    didst    thou 
burn,    didst    thou    honor    the 
power  in  the  form, 
As  the  star  does  at  night,  or  the  fire- 
fly, or  even  the   little  ground- 
worm  ? 
"  I  have  sinned,"  she  said, 
"  For  my  seed-light  shed 
Has  smouldered  away  from  His  first 
decrees. 
The  cypress  praiseth  the  firefiy,  the 
ground-leaf  praiseth  the  worm : 
I  am  viler  than  these." 

III. 

When  God  on  that  sin  had  pity,  and 

did  not  trample  thee  straight 
With    his    wild    rains    beating    and 
drenching  thy  light  found  inad- 
equate ; 
When  he  only  sent  thee  the  north 
wind,    a    little    searching    and 
chill. 
To  quicken  thy  flame,  —  didst  thou 
kindle  and  flash  to  the  heights 
of  his  will  ? 
"I  have  sinned,"  she  said, 
"  Unquickened,  unspread. 
My  fire  dropt  down,  and  I  wept  on 
my  knees: 
I  only  said  of  his  winds  of  the  north 
as  I  shrank  from  their  chill, 
What  delight  is  in  these  ?  " 


-TT* — .-I  ^"•m 


:/ 


,v,..,&.^\m\\::^ 


"  And  if  any  painter  drew  lier, 
He  would  paint  her  unaware 
With  a  halo  round  tlie  hair."  —  Page  384- 


I 


CONFESSIONS. 


585 


IV. 

Wlieii  God  on  that  sin  had  pity,  and 

did  not  meet  it  as  sucli. 
But  tempered  tlie  wind  to  tliy  uses, 
and  softened  the  world  to  thy 
touch, 
At  least  tliou  wast  moved  in  thy  soul, 
though,  unable  to  prove  it  afar. 
Thou  couldst  carry  thy  light  like  a 
jewel,  not  giving  it  out  like  a 
star  ? 
"  I  have  sinned,"  she  said, 
' '  And  not  merited 
The  gift  he  gives,  by  the  grace  he 
sees  ! 
The  mine-cave    praiseth    the    jewel, 
the  hillside  praiseth  the  star: 
I  am  viler  than  these." 


V. 

Then  I  cried  aloud  in  my  passion. 
Unthankful  and  impotent  crea- 
ture. 
To  throw  up  thy  scorn  unto  God 
through  the  rents  in  thy  beg- 
garly nature ! 
If   he,  the  All-giving  and  Loving,  is 

served  so  unduly,  what  then 
Hast  thou  done  to  the  weak  and  the 
false   and  the    changing,  —  thy 
fellows  of  men  ? 
"T  have  loved,"  she  said, 
(Words  bowing  her  head 
As  the  wind  the  wet  acacia-trees) 
"I  saw  God  sitting  above  me,  but  I 
...  I  sate  among  men, 
And  I  have  loved  these." 


VI. 

Again    with    a    lifted    voice,    like    a 

choral  trumpet,  that  takes 
The  lowest  note  of  a  viol  that  trem- 
bles, and  triumphing  breaks 
On  the  air  with  it  solemn  and  clear, 
"  Behold  !  I  have  sinned  not  in 
this  ! 
"Where  I  loved,  I  have  loved  much 
and  well:   I   have  verily  loved 
not  amiss. 
Let  the  living,"  she  said, 
"  Inquire  of  the  dead. 
In   the  house  of    the    i)ale-frouted 
images: 
My   own  true   dead   will   answer  for 
me,  that  I  have  not  lovsd  amiss 
In  my  love  for  all  these. 


VII. 

"The  least  touch  of  their  hands  in 

the  morning,  I  keep  it  by  day 

and  by  night; 
Their  least  step  on  the  stair,  at  the 

door,  still   throbs  through  me, 

if  ever  so  light; 
Their   least  gift   which   they   left    to 

my  childhood,   far    off    in    the 

long-ago  years. 
Is  now  turned  from  a  toy  to  a  relic, 

and  seen   through  the  crystals 

of  tears. 
Dig  the  snow,"  she  said, 
"  For  my  churchyard  bed ; 
Yet  I,  as  r  sleep,  shall  not  fear  to 

freeze, 
If    one  only  of    these    my  beloveds 

shall  love  me  with  heart-warm 

tears. 
As  I  have  loved  these  !  " 


VIII. 

"  If  I  angered  any  among  them,  from 
thenceforth   my  own    life   was 
sore ; 
If  I  fell  by  chance  from  their  pres- 
ence, I  clung  to  their  memory 
more: 
Their  tender  I  often  felt  holy,  their 
bitter  I  sometimes  called  sweet; 
And,  whenever  their  heart  has  refused 
me,  I  fell  down  straight  at  their 
feet. 
I  have  loved,"  she  said: 
"Man  is  weak,  God  is  dread; 
Yet  the  weak  man  dies  with  his 
S]nrit  at  ease, 
Having  poured   such   an  unguent  of 
love  but  once  on  the  Saviour's 
feet, 
As  I  lavished  for  these." 


IX. 

Go,  I  cried:  thou  hast  chosen  the  hu- 
man, and  left  the  divine  ! 

Then,  at  least,  have  the  human  shared 
with  thee  their  wild  berry-wine  ? 

Have  they  loved  back  thy  loVe,  and, 
when  strangers  approached 
thee  with  blame, 

Have    they  covered    thy  fault   with 
their  kisses,  and  loved  thee  the 
same  ? 
But  she  shrunk  and  said, 
"  God  over  my  head 


386 


LOVED   ONCE 


Must  sweep    iu    the   wrath    of  his 
judgment-seas, 
[f  He  shall  deal  with  me  sinning  but 
only  indeed  the  same, 
And  no  gentler  than  these." 


LOVED  ONCE. 


I  CLASSED,  appraising  once, 
Earth's      lamentable      sounds,  —  the 
well-aday, 
The  jarring  yea  and  nay. 
The  fall    of   kisses  on   unauswering 

clay. 
The    sobbed    farewell,   the    welcome 
mournfuller; 
But  all  did  leaven  the  air 
"With  a  less  bitter  leaven  of  sure  de- 
spair 
Than  these  words,  '•  I  loved  once." 


And  who  saith  "  I  loved  once  "  ? 
Not  angels,  whose  clear  eyes,   love, 
love,  foresee, 
Love,  through  eternity. 
And  by  To  Love  do  apprehend  To  Be. 
Not    God,    called    Love,    his    noble 
crown-name  casting 
A  light  too  l)road  for  blasting: 
The  great    God    changing    not  from 
everlasting, 
Saith  never,  "  I  loved  once." 


IXI. 

Oh,  never  is  "  Loved  once  " 
Thy  word,  thou  Victim-Christ,  mis- 
prized friend  ! 
Thy  cross  and  curse  may  rend. 
But,  having  loved,  thou  lovest  to  the 

end. 
This    is    man's  saying, — man's;    too 
weak  to  move 
One  sphered  star  above, 
Man  desecrates  the  eternal  God-word 
Love 
By  his  No  More  and  Ouce. 


IV. 


"  We  loved  once," 
Is  your  earth  not  cold 


How  say  ye, 
Blasphemers  ? 
enow, 
Mourners,  without  that  snow? 
Ah,   friends,    and    would    ye    wrong 

each  other  so  ? 
And  could    ye    say  of    some  whose 
love  is  known, 
Wliose  prayers  have  met  your  own. 
Whose    tears    have    fallen    for    you, 
whose  smiles  have  shone 
So  long,  "  We  loved  them  once  "? 


V. 

Could  ye,  "  We  loved  her  once," 
Say  calm  of  me,  sweet  friends,  when 
out  of  sight  ? 
When  hearts  of  better  right 
Stand  in  between  me  and  your  happy 

light  ? 
Or  when,  as  flowers  kept  too  long  in 
the  shade, 
Ye  find  my  colors  fade. 
And  all   that  is  not  love  in  me  de- 
cayed ? 
Such  words,  —  Ye  loved  me  once  ! 


VI. 


We  loved  her  once," 
me  when   further    put 


Could  ye,  ' 
Say  cold'  of 
away 
In  earth's  sepulchral  clay. 
When  mute  the  lips  which  deprecate 

to-day  ? 
Not  so  !  not  then  —  least  then  !   When 
life  is  shriven. 
And  death's  full  joy  is  given. 
Of  those  who  sit  and  love  you  tap  in 
heaven. 
Say  no*   "  We  loved  them  once." 


VII. 

Say  never,  ye  loved  once  : 
God  is  too  near  above,  the  grave,  be- 
neath, 
And  all  our  moments  breathe 
Too  quick  in  mysteries  of  life  and 

death 
For    such    a    word.    The    eternities 
avenge 
Affections  light  of  range. 
There   comes    no    change    to   justify 
that  change, 
Whatever  comes,  —  Loved  once  ! 


THE   HOUSE   OF   CLOUDS. 


387 


VIII. 

And  yet  that  same  word  once 
Is    hunianly  acceptive.     Kings  have 
said, 
Shaking  a  discrowned  head, 
"We  ruled   once,"  —  dotards,    "We 

once  taught  and  led:  " 
Cripples    once    danced  i'   the  vines; 
and  bards  approved 
Were  once  by  scornings  moved: 
But  love  strikes  one    hour — love! 
those  never  loved 
Who  dream  that  they  loved  once. 


THE  HOUSE  OF  CLOUDS. 


I  WOULD  build  a  cloudy  house 

For  my  thoughts  to  live  in 
When  for  earth  too  fancy-loose, 

And  too  low  for  heaven. 
Hush  !  I  talk  my  dream  aloud, 

I  liuild  it  bright  to  see; 
I  build  it  on  the  moonlit  cloud 

To  which  I  looked  with  tliet. 

II. 

Cloud-walls  of  the  morning's  gray. 

Faced  with  amber  column. 
Crowned  with  crimson  cupola 

From  a  sunset  solemn: 
May-mists  for  the  casements  fetch, 

Pale  and  glimmering, 
With  a  sunbeam  hid  in  each, 

And  a  smell  of  spring. 

III. 
Build  the  entrance  high  and  prond, 

Darkening,  and  then  brightening, 
Of  a  riven  thunder-cloud. 

Veined  by  the  lightning: 
Use  one  with  an  iris-stain 

For  the  door  so  thin, 
Turning  to  a  sound  like  rain 

As  I  enter  in. 

IV. 

Build  a  spacious  hall  thereby 

Boldly,  never  fearing; 
Use  the  blue  place  of  the  sky 

Which  the  wind  is  clearing  : 


Branched  with  corridors  sublime 
Flecked  witli  winding  stairs, 

Such  as  children  wish  to  climb 
Following  their  own  prayers. 


In  the  mutest  of  the  house 

I  will  have  inj'  chamber; 
Silence  at  the  door  shall  use 

Evening's  light  of  amber, 
Solemnizing  every  mood. 

Softening  in  degree. 
Turning  sadness  into  good 

Ap  I  turn  the  kev. 


VI 

Be  my  chamber  tapestried 

With  the  showers  of  summer, 
piose,  but  soundless,  glorified 
>   When  the  sunbeams  come  here 
Wandering  harpers,  harping  on 

Waters  stringed  for  such, 
Drawing  color  for  a  tune, 
With  a  vibrant  touch. 


VII. 

Bring  a  shadow  green  and  still 

From  the  chestnut- forest: 
Bring  a  purple  from  the  hill 

When  the  heat  is  .sorest; 
Spread  them  out  from  wall  to  wall, 

Carpet-wove  around. 
Whereupon  the  foot  shall  fall 

Id  light  instead  of  souiid. 


VIII 

Bring  fantastic  cloudlets  home 

From  the  noontide  zenith. 
Ranged  for  sculptures  round  the  room; 

Named  as  Fancy  weeneth ; 
Some  be  Junos  without  eyes, 

Naiads  without  sources; 
Sojne  be  birds  of  paradise; 

Some,  Olympian  horses. 


IX. 

Bring  the  dews  the  birds  shake  off 

Waking  in  the  hedges; 
Those  too,  perfumed  for  a  proof. 

From  the  lilies'  edges: 
From  our  England's  field  and  moor 

Bring  them  calm  and  white  in. 
Whence  to  form  a  mirror  jiure 

For  love's  self-delighting. 


i 


388 


A   SABBATH   MORNING   AT   SEA. 


Bring  a  gray  cloud  from  tlie  east. 

Where  the  hirk  is  singing, 
(Something  of  the  song  at  least 

Unlost  in  the  bringing;) 
That  shall  be  a  morning-chair 

Poet-dream  may  sit  in 
"When  it  leans  out  on  the  air, 

Unrhjniied  and  unwritten. 

XI. 

Bring  the  red  cloud  from  the  sun. 

While  he  sinketh,  catch  it; 
That  shall  be  a  couch,  with  one 

Sidelong  star  to  watch  it,  — 
Fit  for  poet's  finest  thought 

At  the  curfew  sounding; 
Things  unseen  being  nearer  brought 

Than  the  seen  around  hira. 

XII. 

Poet's  thought,  not  poet's  sigh  — 

'Las,  they  come  together  ! 
Cloudy  walls  divide  and  fly, 

As  in  April  weather. 
Cupola  and  column  proud, 

Structure  bright  to  see, 
*Tone  !  except  that  moonlit  cloud 

To  whicli  I  looked  with  thee. 

xni. 

Let  them  !     Wipe  such  visionings 

Fi'om  the  fancy's  cartel; 
Love  secures  some  fairer  things 

Dowered  with  his  immortal. 
The    sun    may    darken,    heaven 

bowed; 
But  still  unchanged  shall  be, 

Here,    in    my    soul,    that    moonlit 
cloud 

To  which  I  looked  with  thee  ! 


be 


SABBATH  MORNING 
AT  SEA. 


The  ship  went  on  with  solemn  face; 
To  meet  the  darkness  on  the  deep 
The  solemn  ship  went  onward: 
I  bowed  down  weary  in  the  place; 


For  parting  tears  and  present  sleep 
Had  weighed  mine  eyelids  down- 
ward. 

II. 

Thick   sleep   which   shut   all   dreams 
from  me, 
And  kept  my  inner  self  apart, 
And  quiet  from  emotion. 
Then  brake  away,  and  left  me  free, 
Made  conscious  of  a  human  heart 
Betwixt  the  heaven  and  ocean. 


Th 


III. 
the 


new   wondrous 


new   sight, 
sight ! 
The  waters  round  me,  turbulent. 
The  skies  impassive  o'er  me, 
Calm  in  a  moonless,  sunless  light, 
Half-glorified  by  that  intent 
Of  holding  the  day-glory  ! 


Two  pale  thin  clouds  did  stand  upon 
The  meeting  line  of  sea  and  -sky, 
With  aspect  still  and  mystic: 
I  think  they  did  foresee  the  sun, 
And  rested  on  their  prophecy 
In  quietude  majestic. 


Then  flushed  to  radiance  where  they 
stood. 
Like  statues  by  the  open  tomb 
Of  shining  saints  half  risen. 
The  sun  !  he  came  up  to  be  viewed. 
And  sky  and  sea  made  mighty  room 
To  inaugurate  the  vision. 


VI. 

1  oft  had  seen  the  dawnlight  run 
As  red  wine  through  the  hills,  and 
Itreak 
Through  many  a  mist's  inurning; 
But  here  no  earth  profaned  the  sun: 
Heaven,  ocean,  did  alone  partake 
Tlie  sacrament  of  morning. 

VII. 

Away  with  thoughts  fantastical  ! 

I  would  be  humble  to  my  worth, 

Self-guarded  as  self-doubted: 

Though  here  no  earthly  shadows  fall, 

I,  joying,  grieving  without  earth, 

May  desecrate  without  it. 


A    FLOWER    IN   A    LETTER. 


389 


VIII. 

morning 


sweeps    the 


&od's  sabbath 
waves ; 
I  would  not  praise  the  pageant  high, 
Yet  miss  tlie  dedicature : 
I,  carried  toward  the  sunless  graves 
Bv  force  of  natural  things  —  should 
I 
Exult  in  only  nature  ? 

IX 

And  could  I  bear  to  sit  alone 
'Mid  Nature's  fixed  benignities. 
While  my  warm  jiulse  was  mov- 
ing ? 
Too  dark  thou  art,  O  glittering  sun, 
Too  strait  ye  are,  capacious  seas, 
To  satisfy  the  loving  ! 


It  seems  a  better  lot  than  so 
To    sit   with    friends    beneath    the 
beech, 
And  feel  them  dear  and  dearer; 
Or  follow  children  as  they  go 
In     pretty     pairs,     with     softened 
speech . 
As  the  church-bells  ring  nearer. 

XI, 

Love  me,  sweet  friends,  this  sabbath 
day  ! 
The  sea  sings  round   me  while  ye 
roll 
Afar  the  hymn  unaltered. 
And  kneel  where  once  I  knelt  to  pray. 
And  bless  me  deeper  in  the  soul. 
Because  the  voice  has  faltered. 

XII 

And  though  this  sabbath  comes  to  me 
Without  the  stoled  minister. 
Or  chanting  congregation, 
God's  Spirit  brings  communion,  He 
Who  brooded  soft  on  waters  drear. 
Creator  on  creation, 

XIII. 

Himself,    I    think,    shall     draw     me 
higher, 
Where   keep   the   saints  with   harp 
and  song 
An  endless  sabbath  morning; 
And  on  that  sea  commixed  with  fire 
Oft  drop  their  eyelids,  raised   too 
long 
To  the  full  Godhead's  burning. 


A 


FLOWER  IN 
TER. 


A  EET- 


My  lonely  chamber  next  the  sea 
Is  full  of  many  flowers  set  free 

By  summer's  earliest  duty: 
Dear  friends  upon  the  garden-walk 
Might  stop  amid  their  fondest  talk 

"To  pull  the  least  in  beauty. 

II. 

A  thousand  flowers,  each  seeming  one, 
That  learnt  by  gazing  on  the  sun 

To  counterfeit  his  shining; 
Within  whose  leaves  the  holy  dew 
That  falls  from  heaven  has  won  anew 

A  glory  in  declining. 

Ill 

Red  roses,  used  to  praises  long, 
Contented  with  the  poet's  song, 

The  nightingale's  being  over; 
And  lilies  white,  prepared  to  touch 
The  whitest  thought,  nor  soil  it  much. 

Of  dreamer  turned  to  lover. 

IV. 

Deep  violets,  you  liken  to 

The  kindest  eyes  that  look  on  you. 

Without  a  thought  disloyal; 
And  cactuses  a  queen  might  don. 
If  weary  of  a  golden  crown, 

And  stil!  ai^pear  as  royal. 


Pansies  for  ladies  all,  —  I  wis 
That  none  who  wear  such   brooches 
miss 

A  jewel  in  the  mirror; 
And  tulips,  children  love  to  stretch 
Their  fingers  down,  to  feel  in  each 

Its  beauty's  secret  nearer. 

VI. 

Love's  language  may  be  talked  with 

these: 
To  work  out  choicest  sentences, 

No  blossoms  can  be  meeter; 
And,  such  being  used  in  Eastern  bow- 
ers, 
Young  maids  may  wonder  if  the  flow- 
ers 
Or  meanings  be  the  sweeter. 


!♦■  ♦! 


390 


A   FLOWER    IK   A   LETTER. 


vir. 
And,  such  being  strewn  l)efore  a  bride, 
Her  little  foot  maj^  turn  aside, 

Their  longer  bloom  decreeing, 
Unless  some  voice's  whispered  sound 
Should    make    her    gaze    upon    the 
ground 
Too  earnestly  for  seeing. 

VIII. 

And,  such  being  scattered  on  a  grave, 
"Whoever  mourneth  there  may  have 

A  type  which  seemeth  worthy 
Of  that  fair  body  hid  below. 
Which  bloomed  on  earth  a  time  ago, 

Then  perished  as  the  earthy. 

IX. 

And  such  being  wreathed  for  worldly 

feast. 
Across  the  brimming  cup  some  guest, 

Their  rainljow  colors  viewing, 
May  feel  them  with  a  silent  start, 
The  covenant  his  childish  heart 

With  Nature  made,  renewing. 


No 


our 


X. 

gardened 


England 


To 


flowers 

hath 
match  with  these  in  bloom  and 
breath. 
Which  from  the  world  are  hiding 
In  sunny  Devon  moist  with  rills, — 
A  nunnery  of  cloistered  hills, 
The  elements  presiding. 


By 


XI. 

stream 


the  flowers  are 


Loddon's 
fair 
That  meet  one  gifted  lady's  care 

With  prodigal  rewarding, 
(For  beauty  is  too  used  to  run 
To  Mitford's  bower,  to  want  the  sun 
To  light  her  through  the  garden). 

XII 

But  here,  all  summers  are  comprised ; 
The  nightly  frosts  shrink  exorcised 

Before  the  priestly  moonshine; 
And  ev(>ry  wind  with  stoled  feet, 
In  wandering  down  the  alleys  sweet, 

Steps  lightly  on  the  sunshine, 

XIII. 

And  (having  promised  HarpoiU-ate 
Among  tiie  nodding  roses  that 
No  harm  shall  touch  his  daughters) 


Gives  quite  away  the  rushing  sound 
He  dares  not  use  upon  such  gi'ound, 
To  ever-trickling  waters. 


XIV. 

Yet  sun  and  wind  !  what  can  ye  do 
But  make  the  leaves  more   brightly 
show 

In  posies  newly  gathered  ? 
I  look  away  from  all  your  best, 
To  one  poor  flower  unlike  the  rest,  — 

A  little  flower  half  withered. 


XV. 

I  do  not  think  it  ever  was 

A  pretty  flower,  —  to  make  the  grass 

Look  greener  where  it  reddened ; 
And  now  it  seems  ashamed  to  be 
Alone  in  all  this  company. 

Of  asuect  shrunk  and  saddened. 


XVI 

A  chamber-window  was  the  spot 
It  grew  in  from  a  garden-pot. 

Among  the  city  shadows: 
If  any,  tending  it,  might  seem 
To  smile,  'twas  only  in  a  dream 

Of  nature  iu  the  meadows. 


XVII. 

How  coldly  on  its  head  did  fall 
The  sunshine  from  the  city-wall 

In  pale  refraction  driven  ! 
How  sadly  plashed  upon  its  leaves 
The  raindrops,  losing  in  the  eaves 

The  first  sweet  news  of  heaven  ! 


XVIII. 

And  those  who  planted  gathered  it 
In  gamesome  or  in  loving  fit, 

And  sent  it.  as  a  token 
Of  what  their  city  pleasiu-es  be. 
For  one,  in  Devon  by  the  sea 

And  garden-blooms,  to  look  on, 


XIX.  • 

But  SHE  for  whom  the  jest  was  meant, 
With  a  grave  passion  innocent 

Receiving  what  was  given,  — 
Oh  if  her  face  she  turned  then, 
Let  none  say  'twas  to  gaze  again 

Upon  the  flowers  of  Devon  ! 


r 


CALLS    ON    THE   HEART. 


391 


XX. 

Because,  whatever  virtue  dwells 
lu  genial  skies,  warm  oracles 

For  gardens  brightly  springing,  — 
The  flower  which  grew  beneath  your 

eyes, 
Beloved  friends,  to  mine  supplies 

A  beautv  worthier  singing. 


THE  MASK. 


I  HAVE  a  smiling  face,  she  said ; 

I  have  a  jest  for  all  I  meet; 
I  have  a  garland  for  my  head, 

And  all  its  flowers  are  sweet: 
And  so  you  call  me  gay,  she  said. 

II. 

Grief    taught  to  me  this  smile,   she 
said ; 
And  Wrong  did  teach  this  jesting 
bold; 
These  flowers  were  plucked  from  gar- 
den-bed 
While  a  death-chime  was  tolled: 
And  what  now  will  you   say?    she 
said. 

III. 

Behind  no  prison-grate,  she  said. 
Which    slurs    the  sunshine  half  a 
mile, 

Live  captives  so  uncomforted 
As  souls  behind  a  smile. 

God's  pity  let  us  pray,  she  said. 

IV. 

I  know  my  face  is  bright,  she  said; 

Such  brightness  dying  suns  diffuse : 
I  bear  upon  my  forehead  shed 

The  sign  of  what  I  lose. 
The  ending  of  my  day,  she  said. 

\. 

If  I  dared  leave  this  smile,  she  said, 
And  take  a  moan  upon  my  mouth, 

And  tie  a  cypress  round  my  head. 
And  let  my  tears  run  smooth, 

It  were  the  happier  way,  she  said. 


VI. 

And  since  that  must  not  be,  she  said, 
I    fain    your    bitter    world    would 
leave. 

How  calmly,  calmly,  smile  the  dead, 
Who  do  not,  therefore,  grieve  I 

The  yea  of  heaven  is  yea,  she  said. 

VII. 

Bujtin  your  bitter  world,  she  said. 
Face-joy's  a  costly  mask  to  wear; 
'Tis  bought  with  pangs  long  nourislv 
ed. 
And  rounded  to  despair: 
Grief's  earnest  makes  life's  play,  she 
said. 


Ye 


VIII. 

those 


who  weep?  she 


weep  for 
said  — 

Ah,  fools  !  I  bid  you  pass  them  by. 
Go  weep  for  those  whose  hearts  have 
bled 
What  time  their  eyes  were  dry. 
Whom  sadder  can  I  say  ?  she  said. 


CALLS  ON  THE   HEART. 


Free  Heart,  that  singest  to-day 
Like  a  bird  on  the  first  green  spray, 
Wilt  thou  go  forth  to  the  world. 
Where  the  hawk  hath  his  wing  un- 
furled, 
To  follow,  perhaps,  thy  way  ? 
Where  the   tamer  thine  own   will 

bind, 
And,  to  make  thee  sing,  will  blind, 
While  the  little  hip  grows  for  the  free 
behind  ? 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
— '  No,  no  ! 
Free  hearts  are  better  so." 

II. 
The  world,  thou  hast  heard  it  told. 
Has  counted  its  robber-gold. 
And  the  pieces  stick  to  the  hand : 
The  world  goes  riding  it  fair  and 
grand. 
While    the   truth  is  bought  and 
sold: 


'-■  I  ^m    I 


i 


392 


CALLS    OX   THE   HEART. 


World- voices      east,      world-voices 

west, 
They  call  thee.  Heart,  from  thine 
early  rest, 
"  Come  hither,  come  hither,  and  be 
our  guest." 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
—  '  No,  no  ! 
Good  hearts  are  calmer  so." 


III. 
Who  calleth  thee,  Heart  ?    World's 

Strife, 
With  a  golden  heft  to  his  knife; 
World's  JSIirth,  with  a  finger  fine 
That  draws  on  a  lioard  in  wine 

Her  blood-red  plans  of  life; 
World's    Gain,   with    a   brow  knit 

down : 
World's  Fame  with  a  laurel  crown 
Which  rustles  most  as  the  leaves  turn 
brown : 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
—  "  No,  no  ! 
Calm  hearts  are  wiser  so." 


IV. 

Hast  heard  that  Proserpina 
(Once  fooling)  was  snatched  away 
To  partake  the  dark  king's  seat, 
And  the  tears  ran  fast  on  her  feet 
To  think  how  the  sun  shone  yes- 
terday ? 
With  her  ankles  sunken  in  asphodel 
She   wept    for    the    roses  of    earth 
which  fell 
From  her  lap  when  the  wild  car  drave 
to  hell. 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go? 
—  "  No,  no  ! 
Wise  heai-ts  are  warmer  so." 


V. 

And  what  is  this  place  not  seen, 
Where  hearts  may  hide  serene  ? 
"  'Tis  a  fair  still  house  well  kept. 
Which  humble  thoughts  have  swept, 

And  holy  prayers  made  clean. 
There  I  sit  with  Love  in  the  sun, 
And  we  two  never  have  done 
Singing  sweeter  songs  than  are  guessed 
by  one." 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 
—  "No,  no! 
Warm  hearts  are  fuller  so." 


VI. 

O  Heart,  O  Love,  I  fear 
That  love  may  be  kept  too  near. 
Hast  heard,  6  heart,  that  tale, 
How  Love  may  be  false  and  frail 

To  a  heart  once  holden  dear  ? 
—  "  But  this  true  love  of  mine 
Clings  fast  as  the  clinging  vine, 
And  mingles  pure  as  the  grapes  in 
wine," 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 

—  "No,  no! 

Full  hearts  beat  higher  so." 

VII. 

O  Heart,  O  Love,  beware  ! 
Look  \\i>,  and  boast  not  there; 
For  who  has  twirled  at  the  pin  ? 
'Tis  the  World  between  Death  and 
Sin,— 
The  World  and  the  world's  De- 
spair ! 
And  Death  has  quickened  his  pace 
To  the  hearth  with  a  mocking  face, 
Familiar  as  Love  in  Love's  own  place. 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 

—  "Still,  no! 

High  hearts  must  grieve  even  so." 

VIII. 

The  house  is  waste  to-day,  — 
The  leaf  has  dropt  from  the  spray. 
The  thorn    prickt  through    to    the 

song: 
If  summer  doeth  no  wrong 
The  winter  will,  thej'  say, 
Sing,  Heart !  what  heart  rejDlies  ? 
In  vain  we  were  calm  and  wise, 
If  the  tears  unkissed  stand  on  in  our 
eyes. 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 

—  "Ah,  no! 

Grieved  hearts  must  break  even 
so." 

IX. 

Howbeit  all  is  not  lost. 
The  warm  noon  ends  in  frost, 
And  worldly  tongues  of  promise, 
Like  sheep-bells  die  off  from  us 

On  the  desert  hills  cloud-crosst; 
Yet  through  the  silence  shall 
Pierce  the  death-angel's  call, 
And  "  Come  up  hither,"  recover  all. 
Heart,  wilt  thou  go  ? 

—  "Igo! 

Broken  hearts  triumph  so." 


JL 


WISDOM    UNAPPLIED. 


WISDOM  UNAPPLIED. 


If  I  were  thou,  O  butterfly  ! 

And  poised  my  purple  wing  to  spy 

The  sweetest  flowers  that  live  and  die, 


n. 
waste 


mv  strength  on 


I   would  not 

those, 
As  thou;  for  summer  has  a  close, 
And  pansies  bloom  not  in  the  snows. 

III. 

If  I  were  thou,  O  working  bee  ! 
And  all  that  honey-gold  I  see 
Could  delve  from  roses  easily, 

IV. 

I  would  not  hive  it  at  man's  door, 
As  thou,  that  heirdom  of  luy  store 
Should  make  him  rich,  and  leave  me 
poor. 


If  I  were  the  a,  O  eagle  proud  ! 

And    screamed    the     thunder    back 

aloud, 
And   faced   the    lightning    from    the 

cloud, 

VI. 

I  would  not  build  my  eyry-throne, 
As  thou,  upon  a  crumbling  stone 
Which  the  next  storm   may  trample 
down. 

VTI. 

If  I  were  thou,  O  gallant  steed  ! 
With  pawing  hoof  and  dancing  head, 
And  eye  outrunning  thine  own  speed, 

VIII. 

I  would  not  meeken  to  the  rein, 
As  thou,  nor  smooth  my  nostril  plain 
From    the    glad    desert's    snort    and 
strain. 

rx. 

If  I  were  thou,  red-breasted  bird. 
With  song  at  shut-up  window  heard. 
Like  love's  sweet  yes  too   long  de- 
ferred, 


X. 


I  would  not  overstay  delight. 

As  thou,  but  take  a  swallow-flight 

Till  the  new  spring  returned  to  sight. 


XI. 


While  yet  I  spake,  a  touch  was  laiil 
Upon  my  brow,  whose  pride  did  fade 
As  thus,  methought,  an  angel  said,  — 


XII. 


"  If  I  were  ihon  who  sing'st  this  song. 
Most  wise  for  others,  and  most  strong 
In  seeing  right  while  doing  wrong. 


XIII. 

"  I   would  not  waste   my  cares,  and 

choose. 
As  thoTt, — to  seek  what  thou   must 

lose, 
Such  gains  as  perish  in  the  use. 


XIV. 

"  I  would  not  work  where  none  can 

win, 
As   tliou,  —  halfway  'twixt  grief  and 

sin, 
But  look  above,  and  judge  within. 


XV. 

"  I  would  not  let  my  pulse  beat  high. 
As  thou,  — towards  fame's  regality. 
Nor  yet  in  love's  great  jeopardy. 


XVI. 

"  I  would  not  champ  the  hard,  cold  bit. 
As  thou,  —  of  what  the  world  thinks 

lit. 
But  take  God's  freedom,  using  it. 


XVJI. 

"  I  would  not  play  earth's  winter  out. 
As  thou,  —  but  gird  my  soul  about. 
And  live  for  life  past  death  and  doubt. 


xvin. 

"  Then  sing,  O  singer!  but  allow. 
Beast,    fly,   and   bird,    called   foolish 

now. 
Are  wise  (for  all  thy  scorn)  as  thou." 


,.i.» 


3!)4 


MEMORY   AMJ    HOPE. 


MEMORY  AND  HOPE. 


Back-looking  Memory 
And  prophet  Hope  both  sprang  from 

out  the  ground,  — 
One,  where  the  tiashing  of   r-herubic 
sword 
Fell  sad  in  Eden's  ward; 
And  one,  from  Eden  earth  within  the 

sound 
Of  the  four  rivers  lapsing  pleasantly. 
What  time  the  promise  after  curse  was 
said: 
"Thy  seed  shall  bruise  his  head." 

II. 

Poor  Memory's  brain  is  wild, 
As  moonstruck  by  that  flaming  atmos- 
phere 
When  she  was  born  ;   her  deep  eyes 
shine  and  shone 
With  light  that  conquereth  sun 
And  stars  to  wanner  paleness,  year  by 

year: 
With  odorous  gums  she  mixeth  things 

defiled; 
She  trampleth  down   earth's   grasses 
green  and  sweet 
With  her  far-wandering  feet. 

III. 

She  plucketh  many  flowers, 
Their  beauty  on  her  bosom's  coldness 

killing; 
She  teachetli  every  melancholy  sound 

To  winds  and  waters  round ; 
She  droppeth  tears  with  seed,  where 
man  is  tilling 

rugged    soil    in    his    exhausted 
hours ; 

ah    me  !  in   her  smile 


The 


She   smileth 
doth  go 
A  mood  of  deeper  woe. 

IV. 

Hope  tripped  on  out  of  sight, 

Crowned  with   an    Eden  wreath   she 
saw  not  wither, 

And  went  a-nodding  through  the  wil- 
derness. 
With  brow  that  shone  no  less 

Than  a  sea-gull's  wing,  brought  nearer 
by  rough  weather, 

Searching  the  treeless  rock  for  fruits 
of  light; 


Her  fair,  quick  feet  being  armed  from 
stones  and  cold 
By  slippers  of  pure  gold. 

V. 

Memory  did  Hope  much  wrong, 
And,  while  she  dreamed,  lier  slippers 

stole  away; 
But  still  she  wended  on  with   mirth 
unheeding. 
Although  her  feet  were  bleeding, 
Till  Memory  tracked  her  on  a  certain 

day. 
And  with   most  evil  eyes  did  search 

her  long 
And   cruelly  ;    whereat  she  sank   to 
ground 
In  a  stark  deadly  swound. 


vr. 

And  so  my  Hope  were  slain, 
Had  it  not  been  that  Thou  wast  stand- 
ing near, 
O  Thou  who  saidest,  "  Live,"  to  crea- 
tures Ij'ing 
In  their  own  blood,  and  dying  ! 
For  Thou  her  forehead  to  Thine  heart 

didst  rear. 
And  make  its  silent  pulses  sing  again. 
Pouring  a  new  light  o'er  her  darkened 
eyne. 
With  tender  tears  from  Thine. 


VII. 

Therefore  my  Hope  arose 
From  out  her  swound,  and  gazed  upon 

Thy  face; 
And,  meeting  r,here  that  soft,  subdu- 
ing look 
Which  Peter's  spirit  shook, 
Sauk  downward  in  a  raj^ture,  to  em- 
brace 
Thy    pierced    hands    and    feet    with 

kisses  close. 
And  prayed  Thee  to  assist  her  ever- 
more 
To  "  reach  the  things  before." 

VIII. 

Then  gavest  Thou  the  smile 
Whence  angel-wings  thrill  quick,  like 

summer  lightning. 
Vouchsafing  rest  beside  Thee,  where 
she  never 
From  Love  and  Faith  may  sever: 
Whereat  the  Eden  crown  she  saw  not 
wLdteuing 


HUMAN   LIFE'S   MYSTERY. 


395 


A  time  ago,  though  whitening  all  the 

while, 
Reddened  with  life  to  hear  the  Voice 

which  talked 
To  Adam  as  he  walked. 


HUMAN   LIFE'S   MYS- 
TERY. 


We  sow  the  glebe,  we  reap  the  corn, 
We  build  the  bouse  where  we  may 
rest. 
And  then,  at  moments,  suddenly 
We  look  up  to  tlie  great  wide  sky. 
Inquiring  therefore  we  were  born,  — 
For  earnest,  or  for  jest? 


The  senses  folding  thick  and  dark 
About  the  stifled  soul  within. 

We  guess  diviner  things  bej^ond. 

And  yearn   to    them  with  yearning 
fond : 

We  strike  out  blindly  to  a  mark 
Believed  in,  but  not  seen. 


III. 

"\^'e  vibrate  to  the  pant  and  thrill 
Wherewith  Eternity  lias  curled 

In  serpent-twine  about  God's  seat; 

While,  freshening  upward  to  his  feet, 

In  gradual  growth  His  full-leaved  will 
Ex])ands  from  world  to  world. 


IV. 

And,  in  the  tumult  and  excess 

Of  act  and  i^assion  under  sun, 
We  sometimes  hear  —  oh,  soft  and  far, 
As  silver  star  did  touch  with  star  — 
The  kiss  of  pef  ce  and  righteousness 
Through  all  things  that  are  done. 


God  keeps  his  holy  mysteries 

Just  on  the  outside  of  man's  dream; 
In  diapason  slow,  we  think 


To  hear  their  pinions  rise  and  sink, 
While  they  Hoat  pure  beneath  his  eyes, 
Like  swans  adown  a  stream. 


VI. 

Abstractions  are  they,'*from  the  forms 
Of  his  great  beauty  ?  exaltations 

From    his   great  glorj^?    strong   pre- 
visions 

Of  what  we  shall  be  ?  intuitions 

Of  what  we  are,  in  calms  and  storms 
Beyond  our  peace  and  passions  ? 


VII. 

Things  nameless !   which  in   passing 
so 
Do  stroke  us  with  a  subtle  grace ; 
We  say,   "Who  passes?"    they  are 

dumb ; 
We  cannot  see  them  go  or  come, 
Their  touches  fall  soft,  cold,  as  snow 
Upon  a  blind  man's  face. 


VIII. 

Yet,  touching  so,  they  draw  above 
Our  common  thoughts  to  heaven's 
unknown. 

Our  daily  joy  and  pain  advance 

To  a  divine  significance, 

Our  human  love  —  O  mortal  love, 
That  light  is  not  its  own  ! 


IX. 


And 


sometimes    horror    chills    our 
blood 
To  be  so  near  such  mystic  things, 
And  we  wrap  round  us  for  defence 
Our  purple  manners,  moods  of  sense, 
As  angels  from  the  face  of  God 
Stand  hidden  in  their  wings. 


And  sometimes  through  life's  heavy 
swound 
We  grope  for  them,  with  strangled 
breath 
We  stretch  our  hands  abroad,  and  try 
To  reach  them  in  our  agony, 
And  widen  so  the  broad  life-wound 
Soon  large  enough  for  death. 


I 


i 

I 


396 


.1    CHILD'S    THOUGHT    OF   GOD. 


A   CHILD'S   THOUGHT 
OF  GOD. 


They  say  that  God  lives  very  high; 
But,  it  you  look  altove  the  pines, 
You  cannot  see  our  God ;  and  why  ? 


II. 


And,  if  you  dig  down  in  the  mines. 

You  never  see  him  in  the  gold; 
Though   from    him    all    that's    glor;, 
shines. 


III. 


God  is  so  good  he  wears  a  fold 

Of  heaven  and  earth  across  his  face, 
Like  secrets  kept  for  love,  untold. 


IV. 

But  still  T  feel  that  his  embrace 

Slides  down  by  thrills  through  all 

things  made,  — 
Throno;h   sight   and   sound   of    every 

jilace. 

v. 

As  if  my  tender  mother  laid 
On   my  shut   lips  her  kisses'  pres- 
sure, 
Half  waking  me  at  night,  and  said 
"Who  kissed  you  through  the  dark, 
dear  guesser?  " 


THE  CLAIM. 


Gkief  sate  upon  a  rock  and  sighed 
one  day, 
(Sighing  is  all  her  rest) 

"  Well-away,     well-away,    ah    well- 
away  !  " 

As  ocean  beat  the  stone,  did  she  her 
breast, 

"  Ah  well-away  !    ah    me  !    alas,   ah 
me!" 
Such  sighing  uttered  she. 


II. 

A  clond  spake  out  of  heaven,  as  soft 

as  rain 
That  falls  on  water:  "  Lo, 
The  winds  have  wandered  from  me  ! 

I  remain 
Alone  in  the  sky- waste,  and  cannot 

go 
To  lean  my  whiteness  on  the  moun- 
tain blue 
Till  wanted  for  more  dew. 


III. 

"The  sun  has  struck    my  brain    to 
weary  peace. 
Whereby  constrained  and  pale 
I  spin  for  him  a  larger  golden  fleece 
Than  Jason's,  yearning  for  as  full  a 

sail. 
Sweet  Grief,  when  thou  hast  sighed 
to  thy  mind. 
Give  me  a  sigh  for  wind. 


IV. 

And  let  it  carry  me  adown  the  west." 

But  Love,  who  i^rbstrated 
Lay  at  Grief's  foot,   his  lifted  eyes 

possessed 
Of  her  full  image,  answered  in  her 

stead; 
"  Now  nay,  now  nay  !  she  shall   not 

give  away 
What  is  my  wealth,  for  any  Cloud 

that  flieth: 
M'here  Grief  makes  moan. 
Love  claims  his  own, 
And  therefore  do  I  lie  here  night  and 

day, 
And  eke  my  life  out  with  the  breath 

she  sigheth." 


SONG  OF  THE  EOSE. 

ATTRIBUTED   TO   SAPPHO. 

{From  Achilles  Tatius.) 


If  Zeus  chose  us  a  king  of  the  fiow. 
ers  in  his  mirth. 
He  would  call  to  the  rose,  and  would 
royally  crown  it; 


THE   EXILE'S    RETURN. 


39; 


For  the  rose,  ho,   the  rose  !    is    the 
grace  of  the  earth, 
Is  the  light  of  the  i^lants  that  are 
growing  upon  it: 
For  the  rose,  ho,  the  rose  !  is  the  eye 
of  the  flowers, 
Is  the  hhish  of  the  meadows  that 
feel  themselves  fair, 
Is  the  lightning  of  beauty  that  strikes 
through  the  bowers 
Ou  pale  lovers  who  sit  in  the  glow 
unaware. 
Ho,  the  rose  breathes  of  love  !  ho,  the 
rose  lifts  the  cujd 
To  the  red  lips  of  Cypris   invoked 
for  a  guest  ! 
Ho,  the  rose,  having  curled  its  sweet 
leaves  for  the  world. 
Takes  delight    in    the    motion    its 
petals  keep  up, 
As  thej^  laugh  to  the  wind  as  it  laughs 
from  the  west ! 


A  DEAD  ROSE. 


O  ROSE,  who  dares  to  name  thee  ? 
No  longer  roseate  now,  nor  soft  nor 

sweet, 
But  pale  and  hard  and  dry  as  stubble 
wheat. 
Kept  seven  years  in  a  drawer,  thy 
titles  .shame  thee. 


II. 

The  breeze  that  used  to  blow  thee 
Between  the   hedgerow  thorns,   and 

take  away 
An  odor  up  the  lane  to  last  all  day. 
If     breathing     now,     unsweetened 
would  forego  thee. 


III. 

The  sun  that  used  to  smite  thee, 
And  mix  his  glory  in   thy   gorgeous 

urn. 
Till  beam  appeared    to    bloom,   and 
flower  to  burn, 
If  shining  now,  with  not  a  hue  would 
light  thee. 


IV. 

The  dew  that  used  to  wet  thee. 
And,  white  first,  grow  incarnadined 

because 
It  lay  upon  thee  where  the  crimson 
was. 
If    dropping    now,   would    darken 
where  it  met  thee 


The  fly  that  lit  upon  thee 
To  stretch  the  tendrils  of  its  tiny  feet 
Along    thy    leaf's    pure    edges  "^  after 
heat. 
If     lighting     now,     would     coldly 
overrun  thee. 

VI. 

The  bee  that  once  did  suck  thee, 
And  build  thy  perfumed  ambers  up 

his  hive. 
And  swoon  in  thee  for  joy,  till  scarce 
alive. 
If  passing  now,  would  blindly  over- 
look thee. 

VII. 

The  heart  doth  recognize  thee, 
Alone,  alone  !   the  heart  doth  smell 

thee  sweet. 
Doth  view  thee  fair,  doth  judge  thee 
most  complete. 
Perceiving  all  those  changes   that 
disguise  thee. 

VIII. 

Yes,  and  the  heart  doth  owe  thee 
More  love,   dead  rose,   than   to    any 

roses  bold 
Which  Julia  wears  at  dances,  smiling 
cold: 
Lie    still    upon    this    heart    which 
breaks  below  thee. 


THE  EXILE'S  RETURN. 


When  from  thee,  weeping,  I  removed, 
And  from  my  land  for  years, 

I  thought  not  to  return,  beloved, 
With  those  same  parting  tears. 

I  come  again  to  hill  and  lea 
Weeping  for  thee. 


I 


398 


THE    SLEEP. 


II. 

I  clasiied  thine  hand  when  standing 
last 
Upon  tlie  shore  in  sight. 
Tlie  land  is  green,  the  ship  is  fast, 

I  shall  be  there  to-night. 
/  shall  be  there  —  no  longer  vm  — 
No  more  with  thee  ! 


III. 
Had  I  beheld  thee  dead  and  still, 

I  might  more  clearly  know 
How  heart  of  thine  conld  turn  as  chill 

As  hearts  by  nature  so; 
How  change  could  touch  the  false- 
hood-free 
And  changeless  thee. 


IV. 

But  now  thy  fervid  looks  last  seen 

Within  my  soul  remain: 
'Tis  hard  to  think  that  they  have  been. 

To  be  no  more  again; 
That  I  shall  vainly  wait,  ah  me  I 
A  wortl  from  thee. 


I  could  not  bear  to  look  upon 
That  mound  of  funeral  clay 
Where  one  sweet    voice    is    silence, 
one 
Ethereal  brow,  decay; 
Where  all  thy  mortal  t  may  see, 
But  never  thee. 


VI. 

For  thou  art  where  all   friends  are 
gone 
Whose  parting  pain  is  o'er; 
And  I,  who  love  and  weep  alone, 
AVhere  thou  \\\\\>  weep  no  more, 
W^eep  bitterly  and  selfishlj' 
For  me,  not  tliee. 


VII. 

I  know,  beloved,  thou  canst  not  know 

That  I  endure  this  pain; 
For  saints  in  heaven,  the  Scriptures 
show. 
Can  never  grieve  again: 
And  grief  known  mine,    even  there, 
would  be 
Still  shared  by  thee. 


THE  SLEEP. 


"  He   giveth    His    beloved    sleep."  —  Ps. 
cxxvil.  2. 

I. 

Of  all  the  thoughts  of  God  that  are 
Borne  inward  into  souls  afar 
Along  the  Psalmist's  music  deep. 
Now  tell  me  if  that  anj'  is. 
For  gift  or  grace,  surpassing  this,  — 
"  He  givetli  His  beloved  sleep." 

II. 

What  would  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 
The  hero's  heart  to  be  unmoved, 
The  poet's  star-tuned  harp  to  sweep. 
The  patriot's  voice  to  teach  and  rouse. 
The  monarch's    crown    to    light    the 

brows?  — 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

III. 

What  do  we  give  to  our  beloved  ? 

A  little  faith  all  undisproved, 

A  little  dust  to  overweep, 

And  bitter  memories  to  make 

The  whole  earth  blasted  for  our  sake: 

He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

IV. 

"  Sleep  soft,  beloved  !  "  we  sometimes 

say. 
Who  have  no  tune  to  charm  away 
Sad  dreams  that  through  the  eyelids 

creep; 
But  never  doleful  dream  again 
Shall  bi-eak  the  hajipj'  slumber  when 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 


O  earth,  so  full  of  dreary  noises  ! 
O  men  with  wailing  in  your  voices  ! 
O  delved  gold  the  wallers  heap  ! 
O  strife,  O  curse,  that  o'er  it  fall  ! 
God  strikes  a  silence  through  you  all, 
And  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 

VI. 

His  dews  drop  mutely  on  the  hill. 
His  cloud  above  it  saileth  still. 
Though   on   its   sloj^e   men    sow   and 

reap : 
INIore  softly  than  the  dew  is  shed, 
Or  cloud  is  floated  overhead. 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleeji. 


COWPER'S    GRAVE. 


399 


VII. 

Ay,  men  may  wonder  wliile  they  scan 
A  living,  tliinking,  feeling  man 
Confirmed  in  such  a  rest  to  keep; 
But  angels  say,  and  through  tlie  word 
I  tliink  their  happy  smile  is  he<ird, 
"  He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 

viri. 

For  me,  my  heart  that  erst  did  go 
Most  like  a  tired  child  at  a  show, 
That    sees    through   tears  the   mum- 
mers leap, 
Would  now  its  wearied  vision  close, 
Would  childlike  on  His  love  repose 
Who  giveth  His  beloved  sleep. 


IX. 

dear  friends, 


wheu  it 


And   friends, 
shall  be 

That  this  low  breath  is  gone  from  me, 
And  round  my  bier  ye  come  to  weef). 
Let  one  most  loving  of  you  all, 
Say,  "  Not  a  tear  must  o'er  her  fall  ! 
He  giveth  His  beloved  sleep." 


THE  MEASURE. 


"  He  comprehended  the  dust  of  t?ic  earth  in  a 
measure  (tySiy)-"—  ^sa.  xl. 
"  Thou  givest  them  tears  to  drink  in  a  measure 


<"<OD    the    Creator,    with    a    pulseless 

hand 
Of  unoriginated  power,  hath  weighed 
The  dust  of  earth  and  tears  of  man  in 
one 
Measure,  and  by  one  weight: 
So  saith  his  holy  book. 

II. 
Shall  we,  then,  who  have  issued  from 

the  dust. 
And  there  return  —  shall  we  who  toil 

for  dust 
And  wrap  our  winnings  in  this  dusty 

life, 

1  I   believe   that  the   word  occurs   in   no 
other  part  of  the  Hebrew  Scriptures. 


Say,  "No  more  tears,  Lord  God  i 
Tlie  measure  runneth  o'er"  ? 

III. 

O  Holder  of    the    balance,  laughest 

thou  ? 
Nay,  Lord  !  be  gentler  to  our  foolish- 
ness. 
For  his  sake  who  assumed  our  du.st, 
and  turns 
On  thee  pathetic  eyes 
Still  moistened  with  our  tears. 

IV. 

And  teach  us,  O  our  Father,  while  we 

weep. 
To  look  in  patience  upon  earth,  and 

learn  — ^ 
Waiting,  in  that  meek  gesture,  till  at 
last 
These  tearful  eyes  be  filled 
With  the. dry  dust  of  death. 


COWPER'S  GRAVE. 


I. 


It 


is   a  place   where  poets  crowned 

may  feel  the  heart's  decaying; 
It  is  a  place  where  happy  saints  may 

weep  amid  their  praying: 
Yet  let  the  gi'ief  and  humbleness  as 

low  as  silence  languish: 
Earth  surely  now  may  give  her  calm 

to  whom  she  gave  her  anguish. 


II. 

O  poets,  from  a  maniac's  tongue  was 

poured  the  deathless  singing  ! 
O  Christians,  at  your  cross  of  hope  a 

hopeless  hand  was  clinging  ! 
O  men,  this  man  in  brotherhood  your 

weary  paths  beguiling, 
Groaned    inly   while   he   taught  yoti 

peace,  and  died  while  ye  were 

smiling  ! 

III. 

And  now,  what  time  ye  all  may  read 
through  dimming  tears  his  storj', 

How  discord  on  the  music  fell,  and 
darkness  on  the  glory, 


l-*-*-»H 


400 


COWPER'S    GRAVE. 


And 


sweet 
lights 


how  when,  one  by  one, 
sounds  and  wandering 
departed, 

He  wore  no  less  a  loving  face  because 
so  broken-hearted, 


IV. 


He 


shall   be  strong  to  sanctify   the 

poet's  high  vocation, 
And  bow  the  meekest  Christian  down 

in  meeker  adoration ; 
Nor  ever  shall  he  be,  in  praise,  by 

wise  or  good  forsaken, 
Named  softly  as  the  household  name 

of  one  whom  God  hath  taken. 


"With  quiet  sadness  and  no  gloom  I 

learn  to  think  upon  him, 
"With  meekness  that  is  gratefulness  to 

God  whose    heaven  hath   won 

him, 
"Who  suffered  once  the  madness-cloud 

to  His  own  love  to  blind  him ; 
But  gently  led  the  blind  along  where 

breath  and  bird  could  find  him, 


VI 


And 


wrought  within  his  shattered 
brain  such  quick  poetic  senses 

As  hills  have  language  for,  and  stars, 
harmonious  influences: 

The  pulse  of  dew  upon  the  grass  kept 
his  within  its  number. 

And  silent  shadows  from  the  trees  re- 
freshed him  like  a  slumber. 


vir. 

AYild,  timid  hares  were  drawn  from 
woods  to  share  his  home-ca- 
resses, 

Uplooking  to  his  human  eyes  witli 
sylvan  tendernesses: 

The  very  world,  by  God's  constraint, 
from  falsehood's  ways  remov- 
ing, 

Its  women  and  its  men  became,  be- 
side him,  true  and  loving. 


And 


VIII. 

in    blindness,    he    re- 
unconscious    of    that 


though, 
mained 
guiding. 
And  things  provided  came  without 
the  sweet  sense  of  providing, 


He  testified  this  solemn  truth,  while 

frenzy  desolated, 
—  Nor  man  nor  nature  satisfies  whom 

onlj'  God  created. 


IX. 

Like  a  sick  child  that  knoweth  not 

his  mother  while  she  blesses. 
And   drops   upon   his  burning    brow 

the  coolness  of  her  kisses; 
That  turns  his  fevered  eyes  around  — 

"  My     mother !      where's      my 

mother  ?" 
As  if  such  tender  words  and  deeds 

could  come  from  any  other  !  — 


The  fever  gone,  with  leajis  of  heart 

he  sees  her  bending  o'er  liim, 
Her  face  all  pale  from  watchful  love, 

—  the   nnweary   love   she    bore 

him  !  — 
Thus  woke  the  poet  from  the  dream 

his  life's  long  fever  gave  him. 
Beneath   those    deep    pathetic    Eyes 

which  closed  in  death  to  sav« 

him. 


XI. 

Thus  ?  oh,  not  thus!  no  type  of  earth 

can  image  that  awaking 
Wherein  he  scarcely  heard  the  chant 

of  seraj)hs  round  him  breaking. 
Or  felt  the   new  immortal   throb  of 

soul  from  body  parted, 
But  felt  those  eyes  alone,  and  knew, 

—  "  My  Saviour  !  not  deserted!  " 


dreamt,   tliat 
in    darkness 


XII. 

Deserted !  AVho  hath 
when  the  cross 
rested. 

Upon  the  Victim's  hidden  face  no  love 
was  manifested  ? 

What  frantic  hands  outstretched  have 
e'er  the  atoning  drops  averted  ? 

What  tears  have  washed  them  from 
the  soul,  that  one  should  be  de- 
serted ? 


XIII. 

Deseifted  !  God  could  separate  from 
his  own  essence  rather ; 

And  Adam's  sins  have  swept  between 
the  righteous  Son  and  Father: 


THE   PET  NAME. 


401 


Yea,  once  Immaniiel's  orphaned  cry 
his  universe  hath  shaken  — 

It  went  up  single,  echoles.s,  "My 
God,  I  am  forsaken  !  " 


XIV. 

It  went  up  from  the  Holy's  lips  amid 

his  lost  creation, 
That  of  the  lost  no  son  should  use 

those  words  of  desolation;  , 

That  earth's  worst  frenzies,  marring 

hope,   should    mar    not    hope's 

fruition; 
And  I,  on  Cowper's  grave,  should  see 

his  rapture  in  a  Aision. 


THE  WEAKEST  THING. 


Which  is  the  weakest  thing  of  all 

Mine  heart  can  ponder  ? 
The  sun  a  little  cloud  can  pall 

With  darkness  yonder  ? 
The  cloud  a  little  wind  can  move 

Where'er  it  listeth  ? 
The  wind  a  little  leaf  above, 

Though  sear,  resisteth  ? 


II. 

What  time  that  yej-ow  leaf  was  green 

My  days  were  gladder; 
But  now,  whatever  spring  may  mean, 

I  must  grow  sadder. 
Ah  me  !  a  leaf  with  sighs  can  wring 

My  lips  asunder  ? 
Then  is  mine  heart  the  weakest  thing 


are 


Itself  can  2:)onder. 


III. 

Yet,  heart,  when  sun  and  cloud 
pined 

And  drop  together, 
And,  at  a  blast  which  is  not  wind, 

The  forests  wither, 
Thou,   from  the    darkening    deathly 
curse. 

To  glory  breakest,  — 
The  strongest  of  the  universe 

Guarding  the  weakest ! 


THE  PET  NAME. 


"  Tlie  name 
Which  from  their  lips  seemed  a  caress." 

Miss  .Mitforu's  Brajiiatic  Scenes. 


I  HAVE  a  name,  a  little  name, 

Uncadenced  for  the  ear, 
Unhonored  by  ancestral  claim, 
Unsauctified  by  prayer  antl  psalm 
The  solemn  font  anear. 

II. 

It  ncA'er  did  to  pagea  wove 
For  gay  romance  belong; 
It  never  dedicate  did  move 
As  "  Sacharissa"  unto  love, 


•'Orinda,' 


III. 


Though  I  write  books,  it  will  be  read 

Upon  the  leaves  of  none; 
And  afterward,  when  I  am  dead. 
Will   ne'er  be  graved,   for  sight    or 
tread. 

Across  my  funeral-stone. 

IV. 

This  name,  AA'hoever  chance  to  call. 

Perhaps  your  smile  may  win: 
Naj-,  do  not  smile  !  mine  eyelids  fall 
Over  mine  eyes,  and  feel  withal 
The  sudden  tears  within. 


Is  there  a  leaf  that  greenly  grows 
Where  summer  meadows  bloom. 
But  gathereth  the  winter  snows. 
And  changeth  to  the  hue  of  those. 
If  lasting  till  they  come  ? 

VI. 

Is  there  a  word,  or  jest,  or  game, 
But  time  incrusteth  round 

With  sad  associate  thought  the  same  ? 

And  so  to  me  my  very  name 
Assumes  a  mournful  sound. 

VII. 

My  brother  gave  that  name  to  me 
When  we  were  children  twain. 
When  names  acquired  baptismally 
Were  hard  to  utter,  as  to  see 
That  life  had  any  pain. 


h^-B-^H 


402 


THE   MOURNING   MOTHER. 


VIII. 

No  shade  was  on  us  then,  save  one 

Of  chestnuts  from  the  hill ; 
And  through  the  word  our  laugh  did 

run 
As    part    thereof:     the    mirth    being 
done, 
He  calls  me  by  it  still. 

IX. 

Nay,  do  not  smile  !  I  hear  in  it 

What  none  of  you  can  hear,  — 
The  talk  upon  the  willow  seat, 
The  bird  and  wind  that  did  repeat 
Around  our  human  cheer. 


X. 

I  hear  the  birthday's  noisy  bliss. 

My  sisters'  woodland  glee; 
My  ifather's  praise  I  did  not  miss, 
When,  stooping  down,  he  cared  to  kiss 

The  poet  at  his  knee,  — 


XI. 

And  voices  which,  to  name  me,  aye 
Their  tenderest  tones  were  keep- 
ing— 
To  some  I  never  more  can  say 
An  answer  till  God  wipes  away 
In  heaven  these  droits  of  weei^ing. 


XII. 

My  name  to  me  a  sadness  wears ; 

No  murmurs  cross  my  mind  — 
Now  God  be  thanked  for  these  thick 

tears 
Which  show,  of  those  departed  years, 

Sweet  memories  left  behind. 


xui. 
Now  God  be  thanked   for  years  in- 
wrought 
With  love  which  softens  yet ; 
Now    God    be    thanked    for    every 

thought 
Which  is  so  tender  it  has  caught 
Earth's  guerdon  of  regret. 


XIV. 

Earth  saddens,  never  shall  remove 

Affections  purely  given ; 
And  e'en  that  mortal  grief  shall  prove 
The  immortality  of  love, 

And  heighten  it  with  heaven. 


THE  MOURNING  MOTHEll. 

(OF  THE   DEAD   BLIND.) 


Dost  thou  weep,  mourning  mother, 

For  thy  blind  boy  in  grave  ? 
That  no  more  with  each  other. 

Sweet  counsel  ye  can  have  ? 
That  he,  left  dark  by  nature, 

Can  never  more  be  led 
By  thee,  maternal  creature, 

'Along  smooth  paths  instead  ? 
That  thou  canst  no  more  show  him 

The  sunshine,  b\-  the  heat; 
The  river's  silver  flowing, 

By  murmurs  at  his  feet? 
The  foliage,  by  its  coolness; 

The  roses,  by  their  smell ; 
And  all  creation's  fulness. 

By  Love's  invisible  ? 
Weepest  thou  to  behold  not 

His  meek  blind  eyes  again, — 
Closed  doorways  which  were  folded, 

And  prayed  against  in  vain, 
And  under  which  sate  smiling 

The  child-mouth  evermore, 
As  one  who  vvatcheth,  wiling 

The  time  by,  at  a  door  ? 
And  weepest  thou  to  feel  not 

His  clinging  hand  on  thine. 
Which  now,  at  dream-time,  will  not 

Its  cold  touch  disintwine  ? 
And  weepest  thou  still  ofter, 

Oh,  never  more  to  mark 
His  low  soft  words,  made  softer 

By  speaking  in  the  dark  ? 
Weep  on,  thou  mourning  mother  ! 

IT. 

But  since  to  him,  when  living, 

Thou  wast  both  sun  and  moon, 
Look  o'er  his  grave,  surviving. 

From  a  high  sphere  alone: 
Sustain  that  exaltation, 

Expand  that  tender  light, 
And  hold  in  mother-passion 

Thy  blessed  in  thy  sight. 
See  how  he  went  out  straightway 

From  the  dark  world  he  knew  — 
No  twiliglit  in  the  gateway 

To  mediate  'twixt  the  two  — 
Into  the  sudden  glory. 

Out  of  the  dark  he  trod. 
Departing  from  before  thee 

At  once  to  light  and  God  ! 


xv.e 


»£ 


-r-JUr,*     ;,L 


'  Dost  thou  weep,  mourning  mother, 
For  thy  blind  boy  in  the  grave?"  —  Page  402. 


(; 


A    VALEDICTION. 


403 


For  the  first  face,  beholding 

The  Christ's  in  its  divine, 
For  tlie  first  place,  tlie  golden 

And  tideless  hyaline. 
With  trees  at  lasting  summer 

That  rock  to  songful  sound. 
While  angels  the  new-comer 

W^raj)  a  still  smile  around. 
Oh,  in  the  blessed  psalm  now, 

His  happy  voice  he  tries, 
Spreading  a  thicker  palm-bough 

Than  others  o'er  his  eyes  ! 
Yet  still,  in  all  the  singing, 

Thinks  haply  of  thy  song. 
Which,  in  his  life's  first  springing, 

Sang  to  him  all  night  long; 
And  wishes  it  beside  him. 

With  kissing  lips  that  cool 
And  soft  did  overglide  him, 

To  make  the  sweetness  full. 
Look  up,  O  mourning  mother  I 

Thy  blind  boy  walks  in  light: 
Ye  wait  for  one  another 

Before  God's  infinite. 
But  thou  art  now  the  darkest, 

Thou  mother  left  below; 
Thou,  the    sole    blind,— thou  mark- 
est. 

Content  that  it  be  so,  — 
Until  ye  two  have  meeting 

Where  heaven's  pearl-gate  is, 
And  he  shall  lead  thy  feet  in, 

As  once  thou  leddest  his. 
Wait  on,  thou  mourning  mother  ! 


A  VALEDICTION. 


God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved  — God 
be  with  thee  ! 
Else  alone  thou  goest  forth, 
Tliy  face  unto  the  north. 

Moor  and  pleasance  all  around  thee 
and  beneath  thee 
Looking  equal  in  one  snow; 
While  I,  who  try  to  reach  thee, 
Vainly  follow,  vainly  follow. 
With  the  farewell  and  the  hollo. 


And  cannot  reach  thee  so. 
Alas,  I  can  but  teach  thee  ! 
God  be  with  thee,  my  beloved  —  God 
be  with  thee  ! 


II 


Can 


•can 


I  teach  thee,  my  beloved 
I  teach  thee  ? 
If  I  said,  "  Go  left  or  right," 
The  counsel  would  be  light. 
The  wisdom  poor  of  all  that  could  en- 
rich thee; 
My  right  would  show  like  left; 
Mj"  raising  would  depress  thee, 
My  clioice  of  light  would  blind  thee, 
Of  way,  would  leave  behind  thee, 
Of  end,  would  leave  bereft. 
Alas,  I  can  but  bless  thee  ! 
May  God  teach  thee,  my  beloved  — 
may  God  teach  thee  ! 


III. 

Can  I  bless  thee,  my  beloved—  can  I 
bless  thee  ? 
What  blessing  word  can  I 
From  mine  own  tears  keep  dry  ? 
What  flowers  grow  in  my  field  where- 
with to  dress  thee  ? 
My  good  reverts  to  ill; 
My  calmnesses  would  move  thee, 
My  softnesses  would  prick  thee. 
My  bindings  up  would  break  thee, 
My  crownings,  curse  and  kill. 
Alas,  I  can  but  love  thee  ! 
May  God  bless  thee,  my  beloved  — 
may  God  bless  thee  ! 


IV. 


Can 


I  love  thee,  my  beloved  —  can  I 
love  thee  ? 
And  is  this  like  love,  to  stand 
With  no  help  in  my  hand. 
When  strong  as  death  I  fain  would 
watch  above  thee  ? 
My  love-kiss  can  deny 
No  tear  that  falls  beneath  it; 
Mine  oath  of  love  can  swear  thee 
From  no  ill  that  comes  near  thee. 
And  thou  diest  while  I  breathe  it. 
And  I —  I  can  but  die  ! 
May  God  love  thee,  my  beloved  — 
may  God  love  thee  ! 


T 


404 


LESSONS   FROM    THE    GORSE. 


LESSONS  FRO:^I 
GORSE. 


THE 


"  To  win  the  spcret  of  a  weefl's  plain  heart." 

LOWELr.. 

J. 

Mountain  gorses,  ever  golden, 
Cankered  not  the  whole  year  long, 
Do  ye  teach  ns  to  be  strong, 
Howsoever  pricked  and  holden, 
Like  your  thorny  lilooms,  and  so 
Trodden  on  l)y  rain  and  snow, 
Up  the  hillside  of  this  life,  as  bleak 
as  where  ye  grow  ? 


ir. 
blossoms. 


shining    blos- 


Mountain 
soms. 
Do  ye  teach  us  to  be  glad 
When  no  summer  can  be  had. 
Blooming  in  our  inward  bosoms?  — 
Ye  whom  God  preserveth  still, 
Set  as  lights  upon  a  hill. 
Tokens  to  the  wintrv  earth  that  beau- 
ty liveth  still." 

lit. 

Mountain  gorses,  do  ye  teach  us 
From  that  academic  chair 
Canoiiied  with  azure  air. 
That  the  wisest  word  man  reaches 
Is  the  humblest  he  can  speak?  — 
Ye  who  li\'e  on  mountain  peak. 
Yet  live  low  along  the  ground,  be- 
side the  grasses  meek. 

IV. 

Mountain  gorses,  .since  Linnreus 
Knelt  T)eside  you  on  the  sod. 
For  your  beauty  thanking  God, 
For  your  teaching,  ye  should  see  us 
Bowing  in  prostration  new  ! 
AVhence  arisen,  if  one  or  two 
Drops  be  on    our  cheeks,   O  world, 
they  are  not  tears,  bxit  dew. 


THE  LADY'S  YES. 


"  Yes,"  I  answered  you  last  night; 

"  No,"  this  morning,  sir,  I  say: 
Colors  seen  by  candle-light 

Will  not  look  the  same  bv  dav. 


II. 


When  the  viols  played  their  best. 
Lamps  above,  and  latighs  below. 

Love  me  sounded  like  a  jest. 
Fit  for  yes,  or  fit  for  no. 


III. 


Call  me  false,  or  call  me  free, 
Vow,  whatever  light  may  shine, 

No  man  on  your  face  shall  see 
Any  grief  for  change  on  mine. 


IV. 


Yet  the  sin  is  on  us  both; 

Time  to  dance  is  not  to  woo: 
Wooing  light  makes  fickle  troth. 

Scorn  of  me  recoils  on  yov. 


Learn  to  win  a  lady's  faith 
Nobly,  as  the  thing  is  high. 

Bravely,  as  for  life  and  death. 
With  a  loyal  gravity. 

VI. 

Lead  her  from  the  festive  boards, 
Point  her  to  the  starry  skies; 

Guard  her  by  your  truthful  words 
Pure  from  courtship's  flatteries. 

vir. 

By  your  truth  she  shall  be  true, 
Ever  true,  as  wives  of  yore; 

And  her  yes  once  said  to  you 
Shall  be  yes  forevermore. 


A  WOMAN'S  SHORTCOM- 
INGS. 


She  has  laughed  as  softly  as  if  she 
sighed. 
She  has  counted  six  and  over, 
Of  a  liurse  well  filled,  and  a  heart  well 
tried  — 
Oh  each  a  worthy  lover  ! 
They  "give  her  time;"  for  her  soul 
must  sliiJ 
Where  the  world  has  set  the  groov- 
ing: 
She  will  lie  to  none  with  her  fair  red 
lip- 
But  love  seeks  truer  loving. 


.1    MAN'S    REQUIREMENTS. 


405 


II. 

3he  trembles  her  fan  in  a  sweetness 
dumb, 
As  her  thoughts  were   beyond  re- 
calliug, 
"With  a  glance  for  one,  and  a  glance 
for  some, 
From  her  eyelids  rising  and  falling; 
Speaks  common  words  with  a  blush- 
ful air, 
Hears  bold  words,  unreproving; 
But  her  silence  says  —  what  she  never 
will  swear  — 
And  love  seeks  better  loving. 


III. 

Go,  lady,  lean  to  the  night-guitar, 

And  drop  a  smile  to  the  bringer, 
Then  smile  as  sweetly,  when  he  is  far. 

At  the  voice  of  an  indoor  singer. 
Bask  tenderly  beneath  tender  eyes; 

Glance  lightly  on  their  removing; 
And  join  new  vows  to  old  perjuries  — 

But  tlare  uot  call  it  loving. 


IV. 

Unless  you  can  think,  when  the  song 
is  done. 
No  other  is  soft  in  the  rhythm; 
Unless  you  can  feel,  when  left  by  one, 

That  all  men  else  go  with  him; 
Unless  you  can  know,  when  unpraised 
by  his  breath. 
That  your  beauty  itself  wants  prov- 
ing: 
Unless  you  can  swear,  '•  For  life,  for 
death  !"  — 
Oh  fear  to  call  it  loving  '■ 


V. 

Unless  you  can  muse  in  a  crowd  all 
day. 
On  the  absent  face  that  fixed  you; 
Unless  you  can   love,  as  the  aujgels 
may, 
With  tiie  breadth  of  heaven  betwixt 
you; 
Unless  you  can  dream  that  his  faith  is 
fast, 
Through  behoving  and  unbehoving; 
Unless  you  can  die  when  the  dream  is 
past  — 
Oh  never  call  it  loving  ! 


A  MAN'S  REQUIRE- 
MENTS. 


Love  me,  sweet,  with  all  thou  art. 

Feeling,  thinking,  seeing; 
Love  me  in  the  lightest  part, 

Love  me  in  full  being. 


II. 


Love  me  with  thine  open  youth 
111  its  frank  surrender. 

With  the  vowing  of  thy  mouth, 
With  its  silence  tender. 


III. 


Love  me  with  thine  azure  eyes, 
Made  for  earnest  granting; 

Taking  color  from  the  skies, 
Can  heaven's  truth  be  wanting  ? 


IV. 


Love  me  with  their  lids,  that  fall 
Snow-like  at  first  meeting; 

Love  me  with  thine  heart,  that  all 
Neighbors  then  see  beating. 


Love  me  with  thine   hand   stretched 
out 

Freely,  open  minded; 
Love  me  with  thy  loitering  foot. 

Hearing  one  behind  it. 

VI. 

Love  me  with  thy  voice,  that  turns 

Sudden  faint  above  me; 
Love  me  with  thy  blush,  that  burns 

When  I  murmur.  Love  me .' 

VII. 

Love  me  with  thy  thinking  soul. 

Break  it  to  love-sighing; 
Love  me  with  thy  thoughts  that  roll 

On  through  living — dying. 

vui. 

Love  me  in  thy  gorgeous  airs. 
When  the  world  has  crowned  thee; 

Love  me,  kneeling  at  thy  prayers, 
With  the  angels  round  thee. 


406 


J     YEAR'S   SPINNING. 


IX. 


Love  me  pure,  as  mnsers  cTo, 
Up  the  woodlands  shady; 

Love  me  gayly,  fast,  and  true, 
As  a  winsome  lady. 


Through  all  hopes  that  keep  us  brave, 

Farther  oif  or  nigher; 
Love  me  for  the  house  and  grave  — 

And  for  something  higher. 

XI. 

Thus,  if  thou  wilt  prove  me,  dear, 

Woman's  love  no  fable, 
/will  love  thee  — half  a  year  — 

As  a  man  is  able. 


A  YEAR'S  SPINNING. 


Hk  listened  at  the  porch  that  day. 
To  hear  the  wheel  go  on  and  on; 

Aud  then  it  stopped,  ran  back  a  way, 
While  through  the  door  he  brought 

the  sun. 
But  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 


II. 

He  sate  beside  me,  with  an  oath 
That  love  ne'er  ended,  once  begun: 

I  smiled,  believing  for  us  both 
What  was  the  truth  for  only  one. 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 

III. 

My  mother  cursed  me  that  I  heard 
A  young  man's  wooing  as  I  spun: 

Thanks,  cruel  mother,  for  that  word. 
For  I  have  since  a  harder  known. 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 


IV. 

I  thought  —  O  God  !  —  my  first-born's 
cry 
Both    voices    to    mine    ear    would 
drown: 


I  listened  in  mine  agony  — 
It  was  the  silence  made  me  groan. 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 


Bury  me  'twixt  my  mother's  grave, 
(Who  cursed  me  on  her  death-bed 
lone,) 
And  my  dead  baby's  (God  it  save  !) 
Who,  not  to  bless  me,  would   not 

moan. 
And  now  my  spinning  is  all  done. 


VI. 

A  stone  upon  my  heart  and  head. 
But  no  name  written  on  the  stone: 

Sweet  neighbors,  whisper  low  instead, 
"  This  sinner  was  a  loving  one  — 
Aud  now  her  spinning  is  all  done." 


vn. 

And  let  the  door  ajar  remain. 
In  case  he  should  pass  by  anon ; 

And  leave  the  wheel  out  very  plain, 
That  HE,  when  passing  in  the  sun. 
May  see  the  spinning  is  all  done. 


CHANGE  UPON  CHANGE. 


Five  months  ago  the  stream  did  How, 
The  lilies  bloomed  within  the  sedge. 
And  we  were  lingering  to  and  fro 
Where  none  will  track  thee  in  this 
snow, 
Along  the  stream,  beside  the  hedge. 
All,  sweet,  be  free  to  love  and  go  ! 
For,  if  I  do  not  hear  thy  foot. 
The  frozen  river  is  as  mute, 
The  flowers  have  dried  down  to  the 

root: 
And  why,  since  these  be  changed 
since  May, 
Shouldst  thou   change  less    than 
theij  i' 


A   REED. 


40' 


II. 

And  slow,  slow  as  the  winter  snow, 
The    tears    liave    drifted    to    mine 
eyes ; 
And  my  poor  cheeks,  five  months  ago 
Set  blushing  at  thy  praises  so. 

Put  paleness  on  for  a  disguise. 
Ah,  sweet,  be  free  to  praise  and  go  ! 
For,  if  my  face  is  turned  too  pale, 
It  was    thine    oath    that  first    did 

fail; 
It  was  thy  love  proved  false  and 

frail: 
And  why,  since  these   be  changed 
enow, 
Should  /  change  less  than  thou  ? 


THAT  DAY. 


I  STAND  by  the  river  where  both  of  us 
stood. 

And  there  is  but  one  shadow  to  dark- 
en the  flood; 

And   the   path   leading  to  it,   where 
both  used  to  pass, 

Has  the  step  of  but  one  to  take  dew 
from  the  grass,  — 

One  forlorn  since  that  dav. 


II. 

The  flowers  of  the  margin  are  many 

to  see ; 
None  stoops  at  my  bidding  to  pluck 

them  for  me. 
The  bird  in  the  alder  sings  loudly  and 

long: 
My  low  sound  of  weeping  disturbs 

not  his  song. 

As  thy  vow  did  that  day. 


III. 

I  stand  by  the  river,  I  think  of  the 

vow; 
Oh,  calm  as  the  place  is,  voAv-breaker, 

be  thou  ! 


I  leave  the  flower  growing,  the  bird 

un reproved: 
Would    I    trouble    thee    rather    than 

them,  my  beloved,  — 

And  my  lover  that  day  ? 


IV. 

Go,  be  sure  of  my  love,  by  that  trea- 
son forgiven ; 

Of  mj'  prayers,  by  the  blessings  they 
win  thee  from  heaven ; 

Of  my  grief  (guess  the  length  of  the 
sword  by  the  sheath's) 

By  the  silence  of  life,  more  pathetic 
than  death's  ! 

Go,  —  be  clear  of  that  day  ! 


A  REED. 


r  AM  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed; 
No  flattering  breath  shall  from  me 
lead 
A  silver  sound,  a  hollow  sound : 
I  will  not  ring,  for  priest  or  king, 
One  blast  that  in  re-echoing 
Would    leave    a    boudsman    faster 
bound. 


II. 

I  am  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed,  — 
A  broken  reed,  the  wind  indeed 

Left  flat  upon  a  dismal  shoi'e ; 
Yet  if  a  little  maid  or  child 
Should  sigh  within  it,  earnest-mild 

This  reed  will  answer  evermore. 


III. 

I  am  no  trumpet,  but  a  reed ; 
Go,  tell  the  fishers,  as  they  spread 
Their  nets  along  the  river's  edge, 
I  will  not  tear  their  nets  at  all, 
Nor  pierce  their  hands  if  they  should 
fall: 
Then  let  them    leave    me    in    the 
sedge. 


408 


THE   DEAD    PAN. 


THE  I)J]AD  PAN. 


Excited  by  Schiller's  "  Cotter  Griechen- 
lands,"  and  partly  founded  on  a  well-kiiowii 
tradition  mentioned  in  a  treatise  of  riutai'cli 
("De  Oraculorum  Defcctu  ").  according  to 
which,  at  the  hour  of  tlie  Saviour's  a^ony,  a 
cry  of  "Great  Pan  is  dead  !  "  swept  across"  tlie 
waves  in  the  hearing  of  certain  mariners, — 
and  the  oracles  ceased. 

It  is  in  all  veneration  to  the  memory  of  the 
deathless  Schiller  that  I  oppose  a  doctrine  still 
more  dishonoring  to  poetry  than  to  Christian- 
ity. 

As  Mr.  Kenyon's  graceful  and  harmonious 
paraphrase  of  the  German  poem  was  the  first 
occasion  of  the  turning  of  my  thoughts  in  this 
direction,  1  take  advantage  of  the  pretence  to 
indulge  my  feelings  (which  overflow  on  other 
grounds)  liy  inscribing  my  lyric  to  th.-it  dear 
friend  and  relative,  with  the  earnestness  of  ap- 
preciating esteem,  as  well  as  of  affectionate 
gratitude.    1844. 


Gods  of  Hellas,  gods  of  Hellas, 
Can  ye  listen  in  your  silence  ? 
Can  your  mystic  voices  tell  us 
"Where  ye  hide  ?    In  floating  islands, 
With  a  wind  that  evermore 
Keeps  you  out  of  sight  of  shore  ? 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


II. 

In  what  revels  are  ye  sunken, 

In  old  Ethiopia? 

Have  the  pygmies  made  you  drunken. 

Bathing  in  niandragora 

Your  divine  pale  lips,  that  shiver 

Like  the  lotus  in  the  river  ? 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 

III. 

Do  ye  sit  there  still  in  slumber. 
In  gigantic  Alpine  rows  ? 
The  black  poppies  out  of  number. 
Nodding,  driiiping  from  your  brows 
To  the  red  lees  of  your  wine, 
And  so  kei)t  alive  and  fine  ? 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


IV. 

Or  lie  crushed  your  stagnant  corses 
Where  the  silver  spheres  roll  on, 
Stung  to  life  by  centric  forces 
Thrown  like  rays  out  from  the  sun  ? 
While  the  smoke  of  your  old  altars 
Is  the  shroud  that  round  you  welters? 
Great  Pan  is  dead. 


"  Gods  of  Hellas,  gods  of  Hellas," 
Said  the  old  Hellenic  tongue. 
Said  the  hero-oaths,  as  well  as 
Poet's  songs  the  sweetest  sung, 
Have  ye  grown  deaf  in  a  day  ? 
Can  ye  speak  not  yea  or  nay, 

Since  Pan  is  dead? 


VI. 

Do  ye  leave  your  rivers  flowing 

All  alone,  O  Naiades, 

While  your  drenched  locks  dry  slow 

in 
This  cold,  feeble  sun  and  breeze  ? 
Not  a  word  the  Naiads  say. 
Though  the  rivers  run  for  aye; 

For  Pan  is  dead. 


VII. 

From  the  gloaming  of  the  oak-wood, 
O  ye  Drj-ads,  could  ye  flee  ? 
At  the  rushing  thunderstroke  would 
No  sob  tremble  through  the  tree  ? 
Not  a  word  the  Dr\'ads  say, 
Though  the  forests  wave  for  aye ; 
For  Pan  is  dead. 


VIII. 

Have  ye  left  the  mountain-places, 
Oreads  wild,  for  other  tryst  ? 
Shall  we  see  no  sudden  faces 
Strike  a  glory  through  the  mist  ? 
Not  a  sound  the  silence  thrills 
Of  the  everlasting  hills: 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


IX. 

O  twelve  gods  of  Plato's  vision. 
Crowned  to  starry  wanderings, 
With  your  chariots  in  procession, 
And  your  silver  clash  of  wings  ! 
Very  pale  ye  seem  to  rise. 
Ghosts  of  Grecian  deities, 

Now  Pan  is  dead. 


X. 

Jove,  that  right  hand  is  unloaded, 
Whence  the  thunder  did  prevail, 
M'hile  in  idiocy  of  godhead 
Thou  art  staring  the  stars  pale  ! 
And  thine  eagle,  blind  and  old. 
Houghs  his  feathers  in  the  cold. 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


i 


1  ' 

II 


THE   DEAD   PAN. 


409 


XI. 

Where,  O  Jnno,  is  the  glory 
Of  thy  regal  look  and  tread  ? 
Will  they  lay  forevermore  thee 
Oil  thy  dim,  straight  golden  hed? 
Will  thy  queendom  all  lie  hid 
Meekly  imder  either  lid  ? 

Pan,  Pau,  is  dead. 


XII. 

Ha,  Apollo  !  floats  his  golden 
Hair  all  mist-like  where  he  stands, 
While  the  Muses  hang  infolding 
Knee  and  foot  with  faint,  wild  hands  ? 
'Neath  the  clanging  of  thy  how, 
Niobe  looked  lost  as  thou  ! 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


xni. 

Shall  the  casque  witli  its  bi'own  iron, 
Pallas'  broad  blue  eyes  eclijise. 
And  no  hero  take  inspiring 
From  the  god-Greek  of  her  lips  ? 
'Neath  her  olive  dost  thou  sit, 
INIars  the  mighty,  cursing  it  ? 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


XIV. 

Bacchus,  Bacchus  !  on  the  panther 
He  swoons,  bound  witli  his  own  vines; 
And  his  Maenads  slowly  saimter, 
Head  aside,  among  the  jJines, 
While  they  murmur  dreamingly, 
"  Evohe  —  ah  —  evohe  —  ! 

Ah,  Pan  is  dead  !  " 


XV. 

Neptune  lies  beside  the  trident. 
Dull  and  senseless  as  a  stone; 
And  old  Pluto,  deaf  and  silent. 
Is  cast  out  into  the  sun ; 
Ceres  smileth  stern  thereat, 
"  We  all  now  are  desolate, 

Now  Pan  is  dead. 


XVI. 

Aphrodite  !  dead  and  driven 
As  thy  native  foam,  thou  art; 
With  the  cestus  long  done  heaving 
On  the  white  calm  of  thine  heart. 
Ai  Adonis !  at  that  shriek 
Not  a  tear  runs  down  her  cheek. 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


XVII. 

And  the  Loves,  we  used  to  know  from 

One  another,  huddled  lie, 

Frore  as  taken  in  a  snow-storm. 

Close  beside  her  tenderly, 

As  if  each  had  weakly  tried  • 

Once  to  kiss  her  as  he  died. 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


Time  inthrall- 


XVIII. 

What,  and  Hermes  ? 

etli 
All  thy  cunning,  Hermes,  thus. 
And  the  ivy  l)lindly  crawleth 
Round  thy  brave  caduceus  ? 
Hast  thou  no  new  message  for  us, 
Full  of  thunder  and  Jove-glories  ? 
Nay,  Pan  is  dead. 

XIX. 

Crowned  Cybele's  great  turret 
Rocks  and  crumbles  on  her  head; 
Roar  the  lions  of  her  chariot 
Toward  the  wilderness,  unfed: 
Scornful  children  are  not  mute,  — 
"  Mother,  mother,  walk  afoot, 

Since  Pan  is  dead  !  " 

XX. 

In  the  fiery-hearted  centre 
Of  the  solemn  universe. 
Ancient  Vesta,  who  could  enter 
To  consume  thee  with  this  curse  ? 
Drop  thy  gray  chin  on  thy  knee, 
O  thou  imlsied  Mystery  ! 

For  Pan  is  dead. 

XXI. 

Gods,  we  vainlj'  do  adjure  you. 
Ye  return  nor  A-oice  nor  sign  ! 
Not  a  votary  could  secure  you 
Even  a  grave  for  your  Divine,  — 
Not  a  grave,  to  show  thereby, 
Here  these  <iraij  old  f/ods  do  lie. 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 

XXII. 

Even    that    Greece    who    took    your 

wages 
Calls  the  obolus  outworn; 
And  the  hoarse  deep-throated  ages 
Laugh  your  godships  unto  scorn; 
And  the  poets  do  disclaim  yon. 
Or  grow  colder  if  tliey  name  you  — 

And  Pan  is  dead. 


i 


410 


THE   DEAD   PAN. 


XXIII. 

Gods  bereaved,  gods  belated, 
With  j'our  purples  rent  asunder, 
Gods  discrowned  and  desecrated, 
Disinherited  of  thunder. 
Now  the  goats  may  climb  and  crop 
The  soft  grass  on  Ida's  top  — 

Now  Pan  is  dead. 


XXIV. 

Calm,  of  old,  the  bark  went  onward, 
"When  a  cry  more  loud  than  wind, 
Rose  up,  deepened,  and  swept  sun- 
ward. 
From  the  piled  Dark  behind; 
And  the  sun  shrank,  and  grew  pale, 
Breathed  against  by  the  great  wail  — 
"  Pan,  Pan,  is  dead." 


XXV. 

And  the  rowers  from  the  benches 
Fell,  each  shuddering  on  his  face, 
While  departing  Influences 
Struck  a  cold  back  through  the  place; 
And  the  shadow  of  the  ship 
Reeled  along  the  passive  deep  — 

"  Pan,  Pan,  is  dead." 


XXVI. 

And  that  dismal  cry  rose  slowly 
And  sank  slowly  through  the  air, 
Full  of  spirit's  melancholy 
And  eternity's  desjjair ! 
And  they  heard  the  words  it  said  — 
Pan  is  dead  —  Gkeat  Pan  is  dead  — 
Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


xxvri. 

'Twas  the  hour  when  One  in  Sion 
Hung  for  love's  sake  on  a  cross; 
When  his  brow  was  chill  with  dying, 
And  his  soul  was  faint  with  loss; 
When    liis    priestly    blood    droj^ped 

downward. 
And  his  kingly  eyes  looked  throne- 
ward  — 

Then  Pan  was  dead. 


XXVIII. 

By  the  love  he  stood  alone  in, 
His  sole  Godhead  rose  complete, 
And  the  false  gods  fell  down  moan- 
ing, 


Each  from  off  his  golden  seat; 
All  the  false  gods  with  a  cry 
Rendered  up  their  deity  — 

Pan,  Pan,  was  dead- 


XXIX. 

Wailing  wide  across  the  islands. 
They  rent,  vest-like,  their  Divine; 
And  a  darkness  and  a  silence 
Quenched  the  light  of  every  shrine; 
And  Dodona's  oak  swaug  lonely, 
Henceforth,  to  the  tempest  only. 

Pan,  Pan,  was  dead. 


XXX. 

Pythia  staggered,  feeling  o'er  her 

Her  lost  god's  forsaking  look; 

Straight  her  eyeballs  filmed  with  hor- 
ror, 

And  her  crispy  fillets  shook. 

And  her  lips  gasped   through    their 
foam. 

For  a  word  that  did  not  come. 

Pan,  Pan,  was  dead. 


XXXI. 

O  ye  vain,  false  gods  of  Hellas, 
Ye  are  silent  evermore ; 
And  I  dash  down  this  old  chalice 
Whence  libations  ran  of  yore. 
See,  the  wine  crawls  in  the  dust 
Wormlike  —  as  your  glories  must. 

Since  Pan  is  dead. 


XXXII. 

Get  to  dust  as  common  mortals. 
By  a  common  doom  and  track  ! 
Let  no  Schiller  from  the  portals 
Of  that  Hades  call  you  back, 
Or  instruct  us  to  weep  all 
At  your  antique  funeral. 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead, 


XXXIII. 

By  your  beauty,  which  confesses 
Some  chief  beauty  conquering  you ; 
Hy  our  grand  heroic  guesses 
Through  your  falsehood  at  the  true,  — > 
We  will  weeji  not !  earth  shall  roll 
Heir  to  each  god's  aureole  — 

And  Pan  is  dead. 


A    CHILD'S    GRAVE   AT   FLORRNCE. 


411 


XXXIV. 

Earth  outgrows  the  mythic  fancies 
Sung  beside  her  iii  lier  youth, 
And  those  debonau-  romances 
Sound  but  dull  beside  the  truth. 
Phoebus'  chariot-course  is  run: 
Look  up,  poets,  to  the  sun  ! 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


XXXV. 

Christ  hath  sent  us  down  the  angels, 

And  the  whole  earth  and  the  skies 

Are  illumed  by  altar-candles 

Lit  for  lilessed  mysteries; 

And  a  priest's  hand  through  creation 

Waveth  calm  and  consecration  — 

And  Pan  is  dead. 


XXXVI. 

Truth  is  fair:  should  we  forego  it? 
Can  we  sigh  right  for  a  wrong  ? 
God  himself  is  the  best  Poet, 
And  tlie  real  is  his  song. 
Sing  his  truth  out  fair  and  full, 
And  secure  his  beautiful : 

Let  Pan  be  dead. 


XXXVII. 

Truth  is  large:  our  aspiration 
Scarce  embraces  half  we  be. 
Shame,  to  stand  in  his  creation 
And  doubt  truth's  sufficiency  ! 
To  think  God's  song  unexcelling 
The  poor  tales  of  our  own  telling  — 

"When  Pan  is  dead. 


XXXVIII. 

"What  is  true  and  just  and  honest, 
"What  is  lovely,  what  is  iiure, 
All  of  praise  that  hath  admouisht, 
All  of  virtue  shall  endure,  — 
These  are  themes  for  poets'  uses, 
Stirring  nobler  than  the  Muses, 

Ere  Pan  was  dead. 


XXXIX. 

O  brave  poets,  keep  back  nothing. 
Nor  mix  falsehood  with  the  whole; 
Look  up  Godward;  speak  the  truth  in 
"Worthy  song  from  earnest  soul : 
Hold  in  high  jjoetic  duty 
Truest  truth  the  fairest  beauty  ! 

Pan,  Pan,  is  dead. 


A  CHILD'S  GRAVE  AT 
FLORENCE. 

A.  A.  E.  C. 
Born  Jui.t,  1S48.     Died  November,  1849. 


Of  English  blood,  of  Tuscan  birth. 
What  country  should  we  give  her? 

Instead  of  any  on  tlie  earth. 
The  civic  heavens  receive  her. 


II. 

And  here  among  the  English  tombs. 
In  Tuscan  ground  we  lay  her. 

While  the  blue  Tuscan  sky  endomes 
Our  English  words  of  prayer. 

III. 

A  little  child  !  how  long  she  lived, 
By  months,  not  years,  is  reckoned: 

Born  in  one  July,  she  survived 
Alone  to  see  a  second. 

IV. 

Bright-featured,  as  the  July  sun 
Her  little  face  still  played  in. 

And  splendors,  with  her  birth  begun, 
Had  had  no  time  for  fading. 

V. 

So,  Lily,  from  those  July  hours. 
No  wonder  we  should  call  her: 

She  looked  such  kinship  to  the  How- 
ers, 
Was  but  a  little  taller. 

VI. 

A  Tuscan  Lily,  —  only  white, 

As  Dante,  in  abhorrence 
Of  red  corruption,  wished  aright 

The  lilies  of  his  Florence. 

VII. 

We  could  not  wish  her  whiter,  —  her 
Who  perfumed  with  pure  blossom 

The  house,  —  a  lovely  thing  to  wear 
Upon  a  mother's  bosom  ! 

VIII. 

This  July  creature  thought,  perhaps, 
Our  speech  not  worth  assuming: 

She  sate  upon  her  parents'  laps 
And  mimicked  the  gnat's  humming; 


i 


412 


.1    CHILD'S    GRAVE   AT   FLORENCE. 


IX. 

'  mother, 


then   left 


Said  "father, 
off, 

For  tongues  celestial  fitter: 
Her  hair  had  grown  just  long  enough 

To  catch  heaven's  lasper-glitter. 


Babes!  Love  could  always  hear  and 
see 

Behind  the  cloud  that  hid  them: 
"  Let  little  children  come  to  me, 

And  do  not  thou  forbid  them." 


XI. 

So,  unforbidding,  have  we  met. 

And  gently  here  have  laid  her. 
Though  winter  is  no  time  to  get 

The  dowers  that  should  o'erspread 
her. 

xn. 

"We  should  bring  pansies  quick  with 
spring, 

Rose,  violet,  daffodilly, 
And  also,  above  every  thing, 

White  lilies,  for  our  Lily. 


Nay, 


xin. 
more  than  flowers,  this  grave 
exacts,  — 
Glad,  grateful  attestations 
Of  her  sweet  eyes  and  pretty  acts, 
With  calm  renunciations. 

XIV. 

Her  very  mother  with  light  feet 
Should  leave  the  place  too  earthy. 

Saying,     "  The     angels    have     thee, 
sweet, 
Because  we  are  not  worthy." 

XV. 

But  winter  kills  the  orange-buds. 
The  garelens  in  the  frost  are; 

And  all  the  heart  dissolves  in  floods, 
Remembering  we  have  lost  her. 

XVI. 

Poor  earth,  poor  heart,  too  weak,  too 
weak 
To  miss  the  July  shining  ! 
Poor  heart !  —  what  bitter  words  we 
speak 
When  God  speaks  of  resigning  ! 


XVII. 

Sustain  this  heart  in  us  that  faints, 
Thou  God,  the  self-existent ! 

We  catch  up  wild  at  parting  saints, 
And  feel  thy  heaven  too  distant. 


XVIII. 

The  wind  that  swept  them  out  of  sin 
Has  rutfled  all  our  vesture: 

On  the  shut  door  that  let  them  iu 
We  beat  with  frantic  gesture, — 


XIX. 

To  us,  us  also,  open  straight ! 

The  outer  life  is  chilly: 
Are  we,  too,  like  the  earth,  to  wait 

Till  next  year  for  our  Lily  ? 


XX. 

—  Oh,  my  own  baby  on  my  knees, 
My  leaping,  dimpled  treasure. 

At  every  word  I  write  like  these, 
Clasped  close  with  stronger  pres- 


sure 


XXI. 


Too  well  my  own  heart  understands, 
At  every  word  beats  fuller  — 

My  little  feet,  my  little  hands. 
And  hair  of  Lily's  color  ! 


XXII. 

But  God  gives  patience;   love  learus 
strength. 

And  faith  remembers  promise. 
And  hope  itself  can  smile  at  length 

On  other  hopes  gone  from  us. 


XXIII. 

Love,  strong  as  death,  shall  conquer 
death, 
Through  struggle  made  more  glori- 
ous : 
This  mother  stills  her  sobbing  breath. 
Renouncing,  yet  victorious. 

XXIV. 

Arms  empty  of  her  child  she  lifts 
With  spirit  unbereaA'en,  — 

"  God  will  not  all  take  back  his  gifts: 
My  Lily's  mine  in  heaven. 


r 


C ATARI N A   TO   CAMOENS. 


413 


I 


XXV. 

"  Still  mine  !  maternal  rights  serene 

Not  given  to  another  ! 
Tlie  crystal  hars  sliine  faint  hetween 

The  souls  of  child  and  mother. 

XXVI. 

"Meanwhile,"     the     mother     cries, 
"content ! 
Our  love  was  well  divided: 
Its    sweetness  following    where    she 
went, 
Its  anguish  staid  where  I  did. 

XXVII. 

"  Well  done  of  -God.  to  halve  the  lot. 
And  give  her  all  the  sweetness; 

To  us,  the  empty  room  and  cot; 
To  her,  the  heaven's  completeness. 

XXVIII. 

"  To  us,  this  grave;  to  her,  the  rows 
The  mystic  palm-trees  spring  in; 

To  us,  the  silence  in  the  house; 
To  her,  the  choral  singing. 

XXIX. 

"  For  her,  to  gladden  in  God's  view; 

For  us,  to  hope  and  bear  on. 
Grow,  Lily,  in  thj'  gai-den  new. 

Beside  the  Rose  of  Sharon  ! 


XXX. 

"  Grow  fast  in  heaven,   sweet 
clipped, 

In  love  more  calm  than  this  is. 
And  may  the  angels  dewy-lijiped 

Remind  thee  of  our  kisses  ! 


Lily 


XXXI. 

shall  tell  thee 


"While   none 
tears,  — 

These  human  tears  now  falling. 
Till,  after  a  few  patient  years. 

One  home  shall  take  us  all  in. 


of   our 


XXXII. 

mother  ■ 


•who     left 


"Child,    father, 
out? 

Not  mother,  and  not  father  ! 
And  when,  our  dying  couch  about. 

The  natural  mists  shall  gather, 

xxxin. 

"  Some  smiling  angel  close  shall  stand 
In  old  Correggio's  fashion. 

And  bear  a  Lily  in  his  hand, 
For  death's  anxuxciatiox." 


CATARINA  TO  CA.MOENS ; 

DTING  IN  HIS  ABSENCE  ABROAD,  AND  RE- 
FERRING TO  THE  POEM  IN  WHICH  HE 
RECORDED  THE   SWEETNESS  OF  HER  EYES. 


On  the  door  you  will  not  enter 

I  have  gazed  too  long:  adieu  ! 
Hope  withdraws  her  i^eradventure; 
Death  is  near  me,  and  not  yoii. 
Come,  O  lover, 
Close  and  cover 
These  j^oor  eyes  you  called,  I  ween, 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !  " 

n. 

When  I  heard  you  sing  that  burden 

In  my  vernal  days  and  bowers. 
Other  praises  disregarding, 
I  but  hearkened  that  of  yours. 
Only  saying 
In  heart-playing, 
"  Blessed  eyes  mine  eyes  have  been, 
If  the  sweetest  his  have  seen  !  " 

III. 

But  all  changes.    At  this  vesper 

Cold  the  sun  shines  down  the  door. 
If  you  stood  there,  would  you  whis- 
per, 
"  Love,  I  love  you,"  as  before, 
Death  pervading 
Now,  and  shading 
Eyes  you  sang  of,  that  yestreen, 
As  the  sweetest  ever  seen  ? 

IV. 

Yes.    I  think,  were  you  beside  them. 

Near  the  bed  I  die  upon, 
Though  their  beauty  you  denied  them, 
As  you  stood  there,  looking  down, 
You  would  truly 
Call  them  duly. 
For  the  love's  sake  found  therein, 
"  Sweetest  eyea  were  ever  seen." 

v. 

And  if  yon  looked  down  upon  them. 

And  if  they  looked  up  to  you. 
All  the  light  which  has  foregone  them 
AVoiild  be  gatliered  back  anew: 
They  would  trulj' 
Be  as  duly 
Love-transformed  to  beauty's  sheen, 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen." 


414 


CATARINA    TO   CAMOENS. 


VI. 

But,  ah  me  !  you  only  see  me, 
In  your  thoughts  of  loving  man. 
Smiling  soft,  perhaps,  and  dreamy, 
Through  the  wavings  of  my  fan ; 
And  unweeting 
Go  repeating 
In  your  revei-y  serene, 
"  Sweetest  ej-es  were  ever  seen," 

VII. 

While  my  spirit  leans  and  reaches 

From  my  body  still  and  pale. 
Fain  to  hear  what  tender  speech  is 
In  your  love  to  help  my  bale. 
O  my  25oet, 
Come  and  show  it ! 
Come,  of  latest  love,  to  glean, 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen." 

VIII. 

O  my  poet,  O  my  prophet  ! 
AVheu  you  praised  their  sweetness 
so. 
Did  you  think,  in  singing  of  it, 
That  it  might  be  near  to  go  ? 
Had  you  fancies 
From  tlieir  glances. 
That  the  grave  would  ciuicklj'  screen 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  "  ? 

IX. 

No  reply.     The  fountain's  warble 
In  the  courtyard  sounds  alone. 
As  the  water  to  the  marble 
So  my  heart  falls  with  a  moan 
From  love-sighing 
To  this  dying. 
Death  forerunneth  Love  to  win 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen." 

X. 

Will  you  come  ?    When  I'm  departed 

AVhere  all  sweetnesses  are  hid, 
Where  thy  voice,  my  tender-hearted. 
Will  not  lift  up  either  lid, 
Cry,  O  lover. 
Love  is  over ! 
Ci-y,  beneath  the  cy])ress  green, 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !  " 

XI. 

When  the  angel  us  is  ringing, 
Near  the  convent  will  you  walk, 

And  recall  the  choral  singing, 
Which    brought    angels  down   our 
talk? 


Spirit-shriven 

I  viewed  heaven, 
Till  you  smiled  —  "  Is  earth  unclean, 
Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  ?  " 

XII. 

When  beneath  the  palace-lattice 

You  ride  slow  as  you  have  done. 
And  you  see  a  face  there  that  is 
Not  the  old  familiar  one. 
Will  you  oftly 
Murmur  softlj', 
"  Here  ye  watched  me  morn  and  e'en, 
Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  "  ? 

XIII. 

When  the  palace-ladies,  sitting 

Round  your  gittern,  shall  have  said, 
"  Poet,  sing  those  verses  written 
■     For  the  lady  who  is  dead," 
Will  you  tremble. 
Yet  dissemble. 
Or  sing  hoarse,  with  tears  between, 
•'  Sweetest  ej'es  were  ever  seen  "  ? 


How    sweet    in 


XIV. 

"Sweetest    eyes!" 
fiowings 
The  repeated  cadence  is  ! 
Though  you  sang  a  hundred  poems. 
Still  the  best  one  would  be  this. 
I  can  hear  it 
'Twixt  my  spirit 
And  the  earth-noise  intervene,  — 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !  " 

XV. 

But  the  priest  waits  for  the  praying. 
And  the  choir  are  on  their  knees, 
And  the  soul  must  pass  away  in 
Strains     more     solemn-high     than 
these. 
Misprere 
For  the  weary  ! 
Oh,  no  longer  for  Catrine 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen  !  " 

XVI. 

Keep  my  riband,  take  and  keep  it, 
(I  have  loosed  it  from  my  hair)  i 
Feeling,  while  you  overweep  it, 
Not  alone  in  your  despair. 

Since  with  saintly 

Watch  unfaintly, 
Out  of  heaven  shall  o'er  you  lean 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen." 

1  She  Itft  hiiu  the  riband  from  her  hair. 


I»B»I 


■  «  ■  I  ^m 


A   DENIAL. 


415 


XVII. 

But  —  but  novj  —  yet  nnremovecl 
Up  to  heaven  they  glisten  fast; 
You  may  cast  away,  beloved, 
In  your  future  all  my  past: 
Such  old  phrases 
May  be  j^raises 
For  some  fairer  bosom-queen  — 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen!  " 

XVIII. 

Eyes  of  mine,  what  are  ye  doing  ? 

Faithless,  faithless,  jiraised  amiss 
If  a  tear  be  of  your  showing, 
Dropt  for  any  hope  of  his  ! 
Death  has  boldness 
Besides  coldness 
If  unworthy  tears  demean 
"  Sweetest  eyes  were  ever  seen." 

XIX. 

I  will  look  out  to  his  future; 
I  will  bless  it  till  it  shine. 
Should  he  ever  be  a  suitor 
Unto  sweeter  eyes  than  mine, 
Sunshine  gild  them, 
Angels  shield  them, 
Whatsoever  eyes  terrene 
Be  the  sweetest  his  have  seen. 


LIFE  AND  LOVE. 


Fast  this  Life  of  mine  was  dying. 
Blind  already,  and  calm  as  death, 

Snowtiakes  on  her  bosom  lying 
Scarcely  heaving  with  her  breath. 


II. 


Love  came  by,  and  having  known  her 
In  a  dream  of  fabled  lands. 

Gently  stooped,  and  laid  upon  her 
Mvstic  chrism  of  holy  hands; 


III. 


Drew  his  smile  across  her  folded 
Eyelids,  as  the  swallow  dips; 

Breathed  as  finel.y  as  the  cold  did. 
Through  the  locking  of  her  lips. 


IV. 

So,  when  Life  looked  upward,  being 
Warmed    and    breathed    on    froiu 
above, 

What  sight  could  she  have  for  seeing, 
Evermore  .  .  .  but  only  Love  ? 


A  DENIAL. 


We  have  met  late  —  it  is  too  late  to 
meet, 
O  friend,  not  more  than  friend  ! 
Death's  forecome  shroud  is  tangled 

round  mj'  feet. 
And  if  I  step  or  stir,  I  touch  the  end. 

In  this  last  jeopardy 
Can  I  approach  thee,  I,  who  cannot 

move  ? 
How  shall  I  answer  thy  request   for 
love  ? 
Look  ill  my  face,  and  see. 

II. 

I  love  thee  not,  I  dare  not  love  thee  ! 
go 
In  silence;  droj)  my  hand. 
If  thou  seek  roses,  seek  them  where 

they  blow 
In  garden-alleys,  not  in  desert  sand. 

"Can  life  and  death  agree. 
That  thou  shouldst  stoop  thy  song  to 

my  complaint  ? 
I  cannot  love  thee.    If  the  word  is 
faint. 
Look  in  my  face,  and  see. 

III. 
I  might  have  loved  thee  in  some  for- 
mer days. 
Oh,  then  my  spirits  had  leapt 
As  now  they  sink,  at  hearing  thy  love- 
praise  ! 
Before  these  faded  cheeks  were  over- 
wept. 
Had  this  been  asked  of  me, 
To  love  thee  with  my  whole  strong 

heart  and  head, 
I  should  have  said  still  .  .  .  yes,  but 
smiled  and  said, 
"  Look  in  my  face,  aud  see  !  " 


41G 


A  DENIAL. 


IV. 

But  now  .  .  .  God  sees    me,  —  God, 
who  took  my  heart. 
And  drowned  it  in  life's  surge. 
In  all  your  wide,  warm  earth  1  have 

no  part  — 
A  light  song  overcomes   me  like    a 
dirge. 
Could  Love's  great  harmony 
The  saints  keep  step  to  when  their 

bonds  are  loose. 
Not  weigh  me  down  ?  am  /  a  wife  to 
choose  ? 
Look  in  my  face,  and  see  — 

V. 

While  I  behold,  as  plain  as  one  who 
dreams, 
Some  woman  of  full  worth, 
Whose  voice,  as  cadenced  as  a  silver 

stream's, 
Shall  prove  the  fountain-soul  which 
sends  it  forth ; 
One  younger,  more  thought-free 
And  fair  and  gay,  than  I,  thou  must 

forget, 
With  brighter  eyes  than  these  .  .  . 
which  are  not  wet  ... 
Look  in  my  face,  and  see. 

VI. 

So  farewell,  thou  whom  I  have  known 
too  late 
To  let  thee  come  so  near. 
Be  counted  happy,   while  men  call 

thee  great, 
And  one  beloved  woman  feels  thee 
dear ! — 
Not  I  !  — that  cannot  be. 
I  am  lost,  I  am  changed:   I  must  go 

farther,  where 
The  change  shall  take  me  worse,  and 
no  one  dare 
Look  in  my  face,  and  see. 

VII. 

Meantime    I    bless    thee.     By    these 
thoughts  of  mine 
I  bless  thee  from  all  such  ! 
I   bless   thy  lamp   to   oil,  thy  cup  to 

wine. 
Thy  hearth  to  joy,  thy  hand  to  an 
equal  touch 
Of  loyal  troth.     For  me, 
I  love  thee  not,  I  love  thee  not !  — 

away  ! 
Here's  no  more  courage  in  my  soul 
to  say, 
"Look  in  my  face,  and  see." 


PROOF  AND  DISPROOF. 


Dost  thou  love  me,  my  beloved  ? 

Who  shall  answer  yes  or  no  ? 
What  is  in-oved  or  disproved 

AVhen  my  soul  iuquireth  so, 
Dost  thou  love  me,  my  beloved  ? 


II. 


I  have  seen  thy  heart  to-day, 
Never  open  to  the  crowd. 

While  to  love  me  aye  and  aye 
Was  the  vow  as  it  was  vowed 

By  thine  eyes  of  steadfast  gray. 


III. 


Now  I  sit  alone,  alone  — 

And  the  hot  tears  break  and  burn 
Now,  beloved,  thou  art  gone, 

Doubt  and  terror  have  their  turn. 
Is  it  love  that  I  have  known. 


r\^ 


I  have  known  some  bitter  things,^ 
Anguish,  anger,  solitude. 

Year  by  year  an  evil  brings. 
Year  by  year  denies  a  good; 

March  winds  violate  my  springs. 


I  have  known  how  sickness  bends, 
I  have  known  how  sorrow  breaks; 

How  quick  hopes  have  sudden  ends, 
How  the  heart  thinks  till  it  aches 

Of  the  smile  of  buried  friends. 

VI. 

Last,  I  have  known  ihee,  my  brave 
Noble  thinker,  lover,  doer  ! 

The  best  knowledge  last  I  have; 
But  thou  comest  as  the  thrower 

Of  fresh  flowers  upon  a  grave. 

VII. 

Count  what  feelings  used  to  move  rae] 
Can  this  love  assort  with  those  ? 

Thou,  who  art  so  far  aliove  me. 
Wilt  thou  stooi>  so  for  repose  ? 

Is  it  true  that  thou  canst  love  me  ? 

VIII. 

Do  not  blame  me  if  I  doubt  thee. 

I  can  call  love  1)y  its  name 
When  thine  arm  is  wrapt  about  me: 

But  even  love  seems  not  the  same 
When  I  sit  alone  without  thee. 


INSUFFICIENCY. 


417 


IX. 


In  thy  clear  eyes  I  descried 
Many  a  proof  of  love  to-day; 

But  to-night,  those  unbelied 
Speechful  eyes  being  gone  away 

There's  the  jiroof  to  seek  beside. 


X. 


Dost  thou  love  me,  my  beloved  ? 

Only  thou  canst  answer  yes  ! 
And,  thou  gone,  the  jiroof's  disproved, 

And  the  cry  rings  answerless,  — 
Dost  thou  love  me,  my  beloved  ? 


QUESTION  AND  ANSWER. 


Love  you  seek  for  presupposes 
Summer  heat  and  sunny  glow. 

Tell  me,  do  you  find  moss-roses 
Budding,  blooming,  in  the  snow  ? 

Snow  might  kill  the  rose-tree's  root: 

Shake  it  quickly  from  your  foot, 
Lest  it  harm  you  as  you  go. 

II. 
From  the  ivy,  where  it  dapples 

A  gray  ruin,  stone  by  stone, 
Do  you  look  for  gi'apes  or  apples. 

Or  for  sad  green  leaves  alone  ? 
Pluck  the  leaves  off,  two  or  three; 
Keep  them  lor  morality 

Wheu  you  shall  be  safe  and  gone. 


INCLUSIONS. 


Oh,  wilt  thou  have  my  hand,  dear,  to 

lie  along  in  thine  ? 
As  a  little  stone  in  a  running  stream, 

it  seems  to  lie  and  pine. 
Now  drop  the  poor,  pale  hand,  dear, 

unfit  to  plight  with  thine. 


II. 

Oh,  wilt  thou  have  my  cheek,  dear, 
drawn  closer  to  thine  own  ? 

My  cheek  is  white,  my  cheek  is  worn 
by  many  a  tear  run  down. 

Now  leave  a  little  space,  dear,  lest  it 
should  wet  thine  own. 


III. 


Oh, 


must  thou  have  my  soul,  dear, 
commingled  with  thy  soul  ? 

Red  grows  the  cheek,  and  warm  tlie 
hand;  the  part  is  in  the  whole: 

Nor  hands  nor  cheeks  keep  separate, 
when  soul  is  joined  to  soul. 


INSUFFICIENCY. 


There  is  no  one  beside  thee,  and  no 
one  above  thee; 

Thou  standest  alone,  as  the  nightin- 
gale sings  ! 

And  my  words  that  would  praise 
thee  are  impotent  things. 
For  none  can  express  thee,  though  all 
should  approve  thee. 

I  love  thee  so,  dear,  that  I  only  can 
love  thee. 


II. 

Say,  what  can  1  do  for  thee  ?    Weary 

thee,  grieve  thee  ? 
Lean  on  thy  shoulder,  new  burdens 

to  add  ? 
Weep  my  tears  over  thee,  making 

thee  sad  ? 
Oh,  hold  me  not,  love  me  not !  let  me 

retrieve  thee. 
I  love  thee  so,  dear,  that  I  only  can 

leave  thee. 


II 


HI-»H 


41<S 


SONNETS   FROM    THE   PORTUGUESE. 


SONNETS  FROM  THE 
PORTUGUESE. 


I  THOUGHT  once  how  Theocritus  had 

sung 
Of    the    sweet    years,   the    dear  and 

wished-for  years, 
Who  each  one  in  a  gracious  hand  ap- 
pears 
To    bear  a  gift    for  mortals,   okl  or 

young; 
And,   as  I  mused  it  in  his  antique 

tongue, 
I  saw  in  gradual  vision,  through  my 

tears. 
The  sweet,  sad  years,  the  melancholy 

years, 
Those  of  my  own  life,  who  hy  turns 

had  tlung 
A  shadow  across  me.     Straightway  I 

was  'ware. 
So  weeping,  how  a  mystic  shape  did 

move 
Behind  me,  and  drew  me   backward 

by  the  hair ; 
And  a  voice  said  in  masterj^  while  I 

strove, 
' '  Guess    now  who    holds    thee  ?  "  — 

"  Death,"  I  said.     But  there 
The      silver      answer      rang,      "  Not 

Death,  but  Love." 

II. 

But  only  three  in  all  God's  universe 
Have  heard  this  word  thou  hast  said, 

— Himself,  beside 
Thee  speaking,  and  me  listening  !  and 

replied 
One  of  us  .  .  .  that  was  God  .  .  .  and 

laid  the  curse 
So  darkly  on  my  eyelids  as  to  amerce 
My  sight  from  seeing  thee,  — that  if  I 

had  died, 
The  death-weights  placed  there  would 

have  signified 
Less  absolute  exclusion.     "  Naj',"  is 

worse 
From  God  than  from  all  others,  O  my 

friend  ! 
'  Men    could    not    part  us  with   their 
\  worldly  jars, 

,'  Nor  the  seas  change  us,  nor  the  tem- 
pests bend ; 
,  Our   hands   would   touch   for   all  the 

mountain-bars: 


S 


And,  heaven  being  rolled  between  us 

at  the  end. 
We  should  but  vow  the  faster  for  the 

stars. 

III. 

Unlike  are  we,  unlike,  O  jirincelv 
Heart ! 

Unlike  our  uses  and  our  destinies. 

Our  ministering  two  angels  look  sur- 
prise 

On  one  another  as  they  strike  athwart 

Their  wings  in  passing.  Thou,  be- 
think thee,  art 

A  guest  for  queens  to  social  pagean- 
tries. 

With  gages  from  a  hundred  brighter 
eyes 

Than  tears  even  can  make  mine,  to 
play  tby  part 

Of  chief  musician.  What  liast  thou 
to  do 

With  looking  from  the  lattice-lights  at 
me, 

A  poor,  tired,  wandering  singer,  sing- 
ing through 

The  dark,  and  leaning  up  a  cyi^ress- 
tree  ? 

The  chrism  is  on  thine  head;  on 
mine  the  dew: 

And  Death  must  dig  the  level  where 
these  agree. 

IV. 

Thou  hast  thy  calling  to  some   pal- 

ace-tloor. 
Most  gracious  singer  of  high  poems, 

where 
The  dancers  will  break  footing,  from 

the  care 
Of  watching  up  thy  pregnant  lips  for 

more. 
And  dost  thou  lift  this  house's  latch 

too  poor 
For  hand  of   thine  ?   and   canst   thou 

think,  and  bear 
To  let  thy  music  drop  here  unaware 
In  folds  of  golden  fulness  at  mj'  door  ? 
Look  up,  and  see  the  casement  broken 

in. 
The  bats  and  owlets  builders  in  the 

roof ! 
My  cricket  chirps  against  thv  mando- 
lin. 
Hush,    call    no    echo    up    in    further 

proof 
Of  desolation  !  there's  a  voice  within 
That  weej)s  ...  as  thou   must  sing 

.  ..  .  alone,  aloof. 


SONNETS   FROM    THE   PORTUGUESE. 


419 


V. 

I  LIFT  my  heavy  heart  up  solemnly, 

As  once  Electra  her  seiiulchral  nrn, 

And,  looking  in  thine  eyes,  I  over- 
turn 

The  ashes  at  thy  feet.  Behold  and 
see 

"What  a  great  heap  of  grief  lay  hid  in 
me, 

And  how  the  red  wild  sparkles  dimly 
burn 

Through  the  ashen  grayness  If  thy 
foot  in  scorn 

Could  tread  them  out  to  darkness 
utterly, 

It  might  be  well,  perhaps  But  if,  in- 
stead, 

Thou  wait  beside  me  for  the  wind  to 
blow 

The  graj'  dust  up  .  ,  ,  those  laurels 
on  thine  head, 

O  my  beloved,  will  not  shield  thee  so, 

That  none  of  all  tlie  fires  shall  scorch 
and  shred 

The  hair  beneath  Stand  farther  off, 
then  !    Go. 

VI 

Go  from  me     Yet  I  feel  that  I  shall 

stand 
Henceforward  in  thy  shadow.    Never- 
more 
Alone  upon  the  threshold  of  my  door 
Of  individual  life,  I  shall  command 
The  uses  of  my  soul,  nor  lift  my  hand 
Serenely  in  the  sunshine  as  before. 
Without  the  sense  of  that   which  I 

forbore,  — 
Thj'    touch    upon    the    isalni       The 

widest  laud 
Doom  takes    to  part    us    leaves  thy 

heart  in  mine 
With  pulses  that  beat  double.     What 

I  do 
And  what  I  dream  include  thee,  as.- 

the  wine 
Must  taste  of  its  own  grapes     And, 

when  I  sue 
I    God  for  myself,  he  hears  that  name  of 
t  thine, 

'    And  sees  within  my  ej^es  the  tears  of 

two. 

VII. 

The  face  of  all  the  world  is  changed, 
.,  I  think, 

('   Since  first  I  heard  the  footsteps  of  thy 
^  sovil 

V   Move  still,  oh,  still,  beside  me  as  they 
stole 


Betwixt  me  and   the  dreadful  outer 

brink 
Of    obvious    death,     where    I,    who 

thought  to  sink, 
Was  caught  up  into  love,  and  taught 

the  whole 
Of  life  in  a  new  rhythm.     The  cup  of 

dole 
God  gave   for  baptism,  I  am  fain  to 

drink. 
And  iiraise  its  sweetness,  sweet,  with 

thee  anear. 
The   names  of  country,   heaven,  are 

changed  away 
For  where  thou  art  or  shaft  be,  there 

or  here ; 
And  this  .  .  .  this  lute  and  song  .  .  . 

loved  yesterday, 
(Tlie  singing  angels  know)  are  only 

dear 
Because    thy  name    moves    right  in 

what  they  say. 

viii. 

What  can  I  give  thee  back,  O  liberal 

And  princely  giver,  who  hast  brought 
the  gold 

And  purple  of  thine  heart,  unstained, 
untold, 

And  laid  them  on  the  outside  of  the 
wall 

For  svich  as  I  to  take  or  leave  withal, 

In  unexpected  largesse  ?    Am  I  cold. 

Ungrateful,  that,  for  these  most  mani- 
fold 

High  gifts,  I  render  nothing  back  at 
all? 

Not  so;  not  cold,  but  very  poor  in- 
stead. 

Ask  God ,  who  knows  For  f reciuent 
tears  have  run 

The  colors  from  my  life,  and  left  so 
dead 

And  pale  a  stuff,  it  were  not  fitly 
done 

To  give  the  same  as  pillow  to  thy 
head. 

Go  farther  !  let  it  serve  to  trample  on . 

IX. 

Can  it  be  right  tc  give  what  I  can 

give  ? 
To   let  thee   sit   beneath   the  fall  of 

tears 
As  salt  as  mine,  and  hear  the  sighing 

years 
Re-sighing  on  my  lips  renunciative 
Through     those     infrequent     smiles 

which  fail  to  live 


s 


I 


/ 


I 


420 


SONNETS    FROM    THE   PORTUGUESE. 


For    all    thy    adjuratlous  ?    Oli,    my 

fears, 
That  this  can  scarce  be  right !     We 

are  not  peers, 
So    to    be    lovers,    and    I    own    and 

grieve 
That  givers  of  such  gifts  as  mine  are 

must 
Be    counted    with    the    iingenerous. 

Out,  alas  ! 
I  will  not  soil  thy   purple  with  my 

dust. 
Nor  breathe  my  poison  on  thy  Venice- 
glass, 
Nor  give  thee  any  love  —  which  were 

unjust. 
Beloved,  I  only  love  thee  !  let  it  pass. 


Yet  love,  mere  love,  is  beautiful  in- 
deed. 

And  worthy  of  acceptation.  Fire  is 
bright, 

Let  temple  burn,  or  flax:  an  equal 
light 

Leaps  in  the  flame  from  cedar-plank 
or  weed: 

And  love  is  fire.  And  when  I  say  at 
need 

/  love  thee  .  .  .  mark  \  .  .  .  I  love  thee 
—  in  thy  sight 

I  stand  transfigured,  glorified  aright, 

"With  conscience  of  the  new  rays  that 
proceed 

Out  of  jny  face  toward  thine.  There's 
nothing  low 

In  love,  when  love  the  lowest:  mean- 
est creatures 

Who  love  God,  God  accepts  while  lov- 
ing so. 

And  what  IfeeL  across  the  inferior 
features 

Of  what  I  am,  doth  flash  itself,  and 
show 

How  that  great  work  of  love  enhances 
Nature's. 

XI. 

And  therefore,  if  to  love  can  be  de- 
sert, 

I  am  not  all  unworthy.  Cheeks  as 
l^ale 

As  these  you  see,  and  trembling  knees 
that  fail 

To  bear  the  burden  of  a  heavy  heart ; 

This  weary-mi.nstrel-life  that  once  was 
girt         "    " 

To  climb  Aornus,  and  can  scarce 
avail 


To  pipe  now  'gainst  the  valley  night- 
ingale 

A  melancholy  music,  — why  advert 

To  these  things?  O  beloved,  it  is 
plain 

I  am  not  of  thy  worth,  nor  for  thy 
place  ! 

And  yet,  because  I  love  thee,  I  ob- 
tain 

From  that  same  love  this  vindicating 
grace. 

To  live  on  still  in  love,  and  yet  in 
vain, — 

To  bless  thee,  yet  renounce  thee  to 
thy  face. 

XII. 

Indeed,  this  very  love  which  is  my 

boast, 
And    which,    when    rising    up    from 

breast  to  brow, 
Doth    crown   me  with  a  ruby  large 

enow 
To  draw  men's  eyes,  and  prove  the 

inner  cost,  — 
This  love  even,  all  my  worth,  to  the 

uttermost, 
I  should  not  love  withal,  unless  that 

thou 
Hadst  set  me  an  example,  shown  me 

how, 
When  first  thine  earnest  eyes  with 

mine  were  crosst. 
And  love  called   love.    And  thus   I 

cannot  speak 
Of  love  even,  as  a  good  thing  of  my 

own; 
Thy  soul  hath  snatched  up  mine  all 

faint  and  weak, 
And  i^laced  it  by  thee  on  a  golden 

throne, — 
And  that  I  love  (O  soul !  we  must  be 

meek) 
Is  by  thee  only,  whom  I  love  alone. 

XIII. 

And  wilt  thou  have  me  fashion  into  T 

.     speech  \ 

The  love  I  bear  thee,  finding  words  -■ 

enough,  \^ 

And   hold   the   torch    out,  while   the      ' 

winds  are  rough, 
Between  our  faces,  to  cast  light  on    \ 

each  ? 
I  drop  it  at  thy  feet.    I  cannot  teach      , 
My  hand  to  hold  my  si^irit  so  far  off 
From    myself  —  me  —  that    I    should     ' 

bring  thee  proof 


SONNETS   FROM   THE  PORTUGUESE. 


421 


\   In  words  of  love  hid   in   me  out  of 

reach. 
(     Nay,  let  the  silence   of  my  woman- 
^  hood 

V    Commend  my  woman-love  to  thy  be- 
lief, 
Seeing  that  I  stand  nnwon,  however 

wooed. 
And  rend  the  garment  of  my  life,  in 

brief, 
By  a  most  dauntless,  voiceless  forti- 
tude, 
Lest  one  touch  of  this  heart  convey 
its  grief 

XIV. 

'If  thou  must  love  me,  let  it  be  for 

nought 
Except  for  love's  sake  only.    Do  not 

say 
''I  love  her  for  her  smile,  her  look, 

her  waj" 
Of  speaking    gently,   for  a    trick    of 

thought 
That  falls    in    well  with    mine,   and 

certes  brought 
A  sense  of  pleasant  ease  on  such  a 

day;" 
For  these  things  in  themselves,  be- 
loved, may 
Be  changed,  or  change  for  thee:  and 

love  so  wrought 
May  be  unwrought  so.    Neither  love 

me  for 
Thine    own    dear    pity's  wiping    my 

cheeks  dry: 
A  creature  might  forget  to  weep,  who 

bore 
Thy  comfort  long,  and  lose  thy  love 

thereby. 
But  love  me  for  love's  sake,  that  ever- 
more 
Thou  mayst  love  on  through  love's 

eternity. 

XV. 

Accuse  me  not,  beseech  thee,  that  I 
wear 

Too  calm  and  sad  a  face  in  front  of 
thine; 

For  we  two  look  two  ways,  and  can- 
not shine 

With  the  same  sunlight  on  our  brow 
and  hair. 

On  me  thou  lookest  with  no  doubting 
care. 

As  on  a  bee  shut  in  a  crystalline; 

Since  sorrow  hath  shut  me  safe  in 
love's  divine. 


And  to  spread  wing,  and  fly  in   the 

outer  air, 
"Were  most  impossible    failure,   if    I 

strove 
To  fail  so.     But  I  look  on  thee,  on 

thee. 
Beholding,  besides  love,  the   end  of 

love. 
Hearing  oblivion  beyond  memory ; 
As  one  who  sits  and  gazes  from  above, 
Over  the  rivers  to  the  bitter  sea. 

XVI. 

And  yet,  because  thou  overcoraest  so, ' 

Because  thou  art  more  noble,  aiid  like 
a  king. 

Thou  canst  prevail  against  my  fears, 
and  fling 

Thy  purple  round  ine,  till  my  heart 
shall  grow 

Too  close  against  thine  heart  hence- 
forth to  know 

How  it  shook  when  alone.  Why,  con- 
quering 

May  prove  as  lordly  and  complete  a 
thing 

In  lifting  upward  as  in  crushing  low  ! 

And,  as  a  vanquished  soldier  yields  his 
sword 

To  one  who  lifts  him  from  the  bloody 
earth. 

Even  so,  beloved,  I  at  last  record, 

Here  ends  my  strife.  If  thou  invite 
me  forth, 

I  ifise  above  abasement  at  the  word. 

Make  thy  love  larger  to  enlarge  my 
worth. 

XVII. 

My  poet,  thou  canst  touch  on  all  the 

notes 
God  set  between  his  After  and  Before, 
And  strike  up  and  strike  off  the  gen- 
eral roar 
Of  the  rushing  worlds  a  melody  that 

floats 
In  a  serene  air  purely.     Antidotes 
Of  medicated  music,  answering  for 
jMankind's  forlornest  uses,  thou  canst 

pour 
From  thence  into  their  ears.    God's 

will  devotes 
Thine  to  such  ends,  and  mine  to  wait 

on  thine. 
How,  dearest,  wilt  thou  have  me  for 

most  rise  ?  — 
A  hope  to  sing  by  gladly,  or  a  fine 
Sad  memor}%  with  thy  songs  to  inter- 
fuse ? 


w~w~9''W''W^^^^^^^ 


422 


SONNETS  FROM    THE   PORTUGUESE. 


A  shade,  in  which  to  sing,  of  palm 
or  pine  ? 

A  grave,  on  which  to  rest  from  sing- 
ing ?    Choose 


XVIII. 

I  NEVER  gave  a  lock  of  hair  away 

To  a  man,  clearest,  except  tliis  to 
thee. 

Which  now  upon  my  fingers  thought- 
fully 

I  ring  out  to  the  full  brown  length, 
and  sav 

"Take  it."  '  My  day  of  youth  went 
yesterday. 

My  hair  no  longer  bounds  to  my  foot's 
glee. 

Nor  plant  I  it  from  rose  or  myrtle- 
tree. 

As  girls  do,  any  more:  it  only  may 

Now  shade  on  two  pale  cheeks  the 
mark  of  tears. 

Taught  drooping  from  the  head  that 
hangs  aside 

Through  sorrow's  trick.  I  thought 
the  funeral-shears 

Would  take  this  first;  but  love  is  jus- 
tified, — 

Take  it  thou,  finding  pure,  from  all 
those  years. 

The  kiss  my  mother  left  here  when 
she  died. 


XIX. 

The  soul's  Eialto  hath  its  merchan- 
dise: 

I  barter  curl  for  curl  upon  that  mart. 

And  from  my  poet's  forehead  to  my 
heart 

Receive  this  lock,  which  outweighs  ar- 
gosies, — 

As  2^^irply  black  as  erst  to  Pindar's 
eyes 

The  dim  purpureal  tresses  gloomed 
athwart 

The  nine  white  Muse-brows.  For  this 
counterpart,  .  .  . 

The  bay-crown's  shade,  beloved,  I 
surmise. 

Still  lingers  on  thy  curl,  it  is  so 
black. 

Thus,  with  a  fillet  of  smooth-kissing 
breath, 

I  tie  the  shadows  safe  from  gliding 
back. 

And  lay  the  gift  where  nothing  hin- 
dereth ; 


Here  on  my  heart,  as  on  thy  brow,  to 

lack 
No  natural  heat  till  mine  grows  cold 

in  death. 

XX. 

Beloved,  my  beloved,  when  I  think     '  ' 

That  tliou  wast  in  the  world  a  year 
ago, 

What  time  I  sate  alone  here  in  the    \ 
snow, 

And  saw  no  footprint,  heard  the  si- 
lence sink 

No  moment  at  thy  voice,  but,  link  by 
link, 

Went  counting  all  my  chains  as  if  that 
so 

They  never  could  fall  off  at  any  blow 

Struck  by  thy  possible  hand,  —  why, 
thus  I  drink 

Of  life'^reat  cup  of  wonder  !     Won- 
derful , 

Never  to  feel  thee  thrill  the  day  or 
night 

With    personal     act    or   speech,    nor 
ever  cull 

Some    prescience    of    thee    ^^■ith    the        'j 
blossoms  white  / 

Thou  sawest  growing  !    Atheists  are     {, 
as  dull,  ^ 

Who  cannot  guess  God's  presence  out       / 
of  sight.  ^' 

XXI. 

Say  over  again,   and   yet  once  over 
again, 

That  thou  dost  love  me.    Though  the 
word  repeated 

Should    seem    a    "cuckoo-song,"    as 
thou  dost  treat  it. 

Remember,  never  to  the  hill  or  plain. 

Valley  and  wood,  without  he  r  cuckoo- 
strain 

Comes  the  fresh   Spring  in    all    her 
green  completed. 

Beloved,  I,  amid  the  darkness  greeted 

By  a   doubtful    spirit-voice,  in    that 
doubt's  pain 

Cry,    "  Sjieak   once   more  —  thou  lov- 
est !  "    AVho  can  fear 

Too  many  stars,  though  each  in  heav- 
en shall  roll, 

Too  many  flowers,  though  each  shall" 
crown  the  year  ? 

Say  thou  dost  love  me,  love  me,  love 
me;  toll 

The    silver    iterance,  only    minding, 
dear. 

To  love  me  also  in   silence  with   thy 
soul. 


i 


SONNETS   FROM    THE  PORTUGUESE. 


423 


\ 


XXII. 

Whex  oixr  two  souls  stand  up  erect 

and  strong, 
Face  to  face,  silent,  drawing  nigh  and 

nigher. 
Until   the    lengthening  wings    break 

into  tire 
At  either  curved   point,  what   bitter 

wrong 
Can  the  earth  do  to  us,  that  we  should 

not  long 
Be    here    contented  ?      Think.       In 

mounting  higher. 
The  angels  would  press  on  us,  and 

aspire 
To  dro])  some  golden   orb  of  perfect 

song 
Into  our  deep,  dear  silence.    Let  us 

stay 
Rather  on  earth,  beloved,  where  the 

unfit 
Contrarious    moods    of    men    recoil 

away. 
And  Isolate  pure  .siMi'its,  and  permit 
A  place  to  stand  and  love  in  for  a 

day, 
With  darkness    and    the  death-hour 

rounding  it. 


<? 


XXIIl. 

Is  it  indeed  so  ?    If  I  lay  here  dead, 
Wouldst  thou  miss  any  life  in  losing 

mine  ? 
And  would  the  sun    for  thee   more 

coldly  shine. 
Because  of  grave-dam]is  falling  round 

my  head  ? 
I    marvelled,    my    beloved,    when    I 

read 
Thy  thought  so  in  the  letter.    I  am 

thine  — 
But  ...  so  much  to  thee  ?      Can    I 

pour  thy  wine 
While  my  hands  tremble  ?    Then  my 

soul,  instead 
Of    dreams  of  death,   resumes    life's 

lower  range. 
Then    love    me.    Love  !  look  on  me, 

breathe  on  me  ! 
As  brighter  ladies  do  not   count    it 

strange, 
For  love,  to  give  up  acres  aud  de- 
gree, 
I  yield  the  grave  for  thy  sake,  and 

exchange 
My  near  sweet  view  of  heaven,   for 
—        earth  with  thee  ! 


XXIV. 

Let    the  world's    sharpness,   like    a 

clasping  knife. 
Shut  in  upon  itself,  and  do  no  harm 
In  this  close  hand  of  love,  now  soft 

and  warm; 
And  let  us  hear  no  sound  of  luiman 

strife 
After  the  click  of  the  shutting.     Life 

to  life  — 
I    lean    upon     thee,     dear,    without 

alarm ,  ' 

And   feel  as  safe  as    guarded    by  a  -. 

charm  '        ^ 

Against  the  stab  of  worldlings,  who,  \ 

if  rife. 
Are  weak    to  injure.     Very  whitely  ■■=■■ 

still 
Tlie  lilies  of  our  lives  may  re-assure 
Their  blossoms  from  their  roots,  ac- 
cessible 
Alone  to  heavenly  dews  that    drop 

not  fewer; 
Growing  straight,  out  of  man's  reach, 

on  the  hill. 
God  onj^y,   who    made    us   rich,   can)  "x 
ma^e  Vxs  poor.  ^•— - — ^-^^s./j 


XXV. 

A   HEAVY    heart,    beloved,    have    I 

borne 
From  year  to  j-ear,  until  I  saw  thy 

face, 
And    sorrow   after  sorrow  took    the 

place 
Of  all  those   natural  joys  as  lightly 

worn 
As  the  stringed  pearls,  each  lifted  in 

its  turn 
By   a  beating  heart    at   dance-time. 

Hopes  apace 
Were  changed  to  long  despairs,  till 

God's  own  grace 
Could  scarcely  lift  aljove  the  world 

forlorn 
My  heavy  heart.    Then  thott  didst  bid 

me  bring 
And   let  it  drop  adown   thy  calmly 

great 
Deep    being.     Fast    it  sinketh,   as  a 

thing 
Which   its  own  nature  doth  precijii- 

tate. 
While  thine  doth  close  above  it,  me- 
diating 
Betwixt  the  stars  and  the  unaccom- 
plished fate. 


I 
<> 


SONNETS  FROM   THE  PORTUGUESE. 


XXVI. 

I  LIVED  with  visions  for  my  company, 
Instead  of    men   and   women,   years 

ago, 
And  found  them  gentle  mates,  nor 

thought  to  know 
A  sweeter  music  than  they  played  to 

me. 
But  soon  their  trailing    purple  was 

not  free 
Of  this  world's  dust,  their  lutes  did 

silent  grow, 
And   I  myself  grew  faint  and  hlind 

below 
Their    vanishing    eyes.    Then    thou 

didst  come  —  to  be. 
Beloved,   what  they  seemed.    Their 

shining  fronts, 
Their  songs^  their  splendors  (better, 

yet  the  same. 
As  river-water  hallowed  into  fonts,) 
Met  in  thee,  and  from  out  thee  over- 
came 
My    soul    with    satisfaction    of    all 

wants, 
Because  God's  gifts  put  man's  best 

dreams  to  shame." 


XXVJI. 

Mv  own  beloved,  who  hast  lifted 
me 

From  this  drear  flat  of  earth  where  I 
was  thrown. 

And,  in  betwixt  the  languid  ringlets, 
blown 

A  life-breath,  till  the  forehead  hope- 
fully 

Shines  out  again,  as  all  the  angels 
see. 

Before  thy  saving  kiss  1  My  own,  my 
own, 

"Who  camest  to  me  when  the  world 
was  gone. 

And  I,  who  looked  for  only  God, 
found  thee ! 

I  find  thee;  I  am  safe  and  strong 
and  glad. 

As  one  who  stands  in  dewless  aspho- 
del 

Looks  backward  on  the  tedious  time 
he  had 

In  the  upper-life,  so  I,  with  bosom- 
swell. 

Make  witness  here,  between  the  good 
and  bad. 

That  love,  as  strong  as  death,  re- 
trieves as  well. 


\ 


\ 


XXVIII.  y 

My  letters  !  all  dead  paper,  mute  and^ 

white !  rs 

And  yet  they  seem  alive,  and  quiver-  r/ 

ing  /( 

Against  my  tremulous  hands  which    ^^ 

loose  the  string,  ^ 

And  let  them  drop  down  on  my  knee  , 

to-night. 
This  said,  he  wished  to  have  me  in 

his  sight 
Once,  as  a  friend;  this  fixed  a  day  in 

spring 
To  come  and  touch   my  hand  ...  a 

simple  thing, 
Yet  I  wept  for  it;   this  .  .  .  the  pa- 
per's light  ... 
Said,  Dear,  I  love  thee;   and  I  sank 

and  quailed  ^ 

As  if  God's  future  thundered  on  my     ' 

past. 
This  said,  I  am  thine,  and  so  its  ink  [ 

has  paled 
With  lying  at  my  heart  that  beat  too    / 

fast ;  ' 

And  this  .  .  .  O  love,  thy  words  have  I 

ill  availed  i 

If  what  this  said  I  dared  repeat  at 

last ! 

XXIX. 

I  THINK  of  thee  !  —  my  thoughts  do 

twine  and  bud 
About  thee,  as  wild  vines  about  a 

tree 
Put  out  broad  leaves,  and  soon  there's 

nought  to  see 
Except  the  straggling    green   which 

hides  the  wood. 
Yet,  O  my  palm-tree  !   be  it  under- 
stood 
I  will  not  have  my  thoughts  instead 

of  thee 
Who  art  dearer,  better.    Rather,  in- 
stantly 
Renew  thy  presence:  as  a  strong  tree 

should. 
Rustle  thy  boughs  and  set  thy  trunk 

all  bare. 
And  let  these  bands  of  greenery  which 

ensphere  thee 
Drop  heavily  down,  burst,  shattered, 

everywhere  ! 
Because,  in  this  deep  joy  to  see  and 

hear  thee. 
And  breathe  within    thy  shadow    a 

new  air, 
I   do  not  think  of    thee  —  I  am  too 

near  thee. 




■  ♦■♦I 


SONyi:TS  FROM    THE  rORTUGUESE. 


425 


XXX. 

I  SEE  thine  image  througli  my  tears 

to-night, 
And  vet  to-day  I  saw  thee  smiling. 

How 
Refer  the  cause  ?    Beloved,  is  it  thou 
Or  I  who  makes  me  sad  ?    The  aco- 
lyte, 
Ami^  the  chanted  joy  and  thankfnl 

rite, 
May  so  fall  flat,  with  jiale  insensate 

brow, 
On  the  altai'-stair.    I  hear  thy  voice 

and  vow, 
Perplexed,  uncertain,  since  thou  art 

out  of  siglit, 
As    he,    in    his    swooning    ears,   the 

choir's  amen. 
Beloved,  dost  thou  love  ?  or  did  I  see 

all 
The  glory  as  I  dreamed,  and  fainted 

when 
Too  vehement  light  dilated  my  ideal. 
For  my  soul's  eyes  ?    ^Vill  that  light 

come  again. 
As  now  these  tears  come  falling  hot 

and  real  ? 


XXXI. 

Thou   comest !   all   is  said  without  a 

word. 
I   sit  heneath  thv  looks,  as  children 

do 
[n  the    noon    sun,   with    souls    that 

tremble  through 
Their    happy    eyelids    from    an    un- 

aA^erred 
Yet    i^rodigal    inward    joy.     Behold, 

I  erred 
In  that  last  doubt !  and  yet  I  cannot 

rue 
The  sin  most,  but  the  occasion,  — that 

we  two 
Should  for  a  moment  stand  unmin- 

istered 
By    a    mutual    presence.     Ah,    keep 

near  and  close,  "■' —     

Thou  doA''e-like  help  !  and,  when  my 

fears  would  rise,     " 
With  thy  broad  heart  serenely  inter- 
pose : 
Brood  down  with   thy  divine    suffi- 
ciencies 
These  thoughts  which  tremble  when 

bereft  of  those, 
Like  callow  birds  left  desert  to  the 

skies. 


/ 


XXXII. 

The  first  time  that  the  sun  rose  on  f^ 

thine  oath  V 

To  lOA'e  me,  I  looked  forward  to  the       ; 

moon 
To   slacken    all    those    bonds  which 

seemed  too  soon 
And  quicklv  tied   to  make  a  lasting 

troth. 
Quick-loving  hearts,  I  thought,  may 

quickly  loathe; 
And,   looking  on   myself,   I    seemed 

not  one 
For  such  man's  love  !  —  more  like  an 

out-of-tune 
Worn   viol   a  good   singer  would   be 

wroth 
To  spoil  his  song  with,  and  which, 

snatched  in  haste, 
Is  laid  down  at  the  first  ill-sounding      "  - 

note. 
I  did  not  wrong  myself    so;    but  I 

placed 
A  wrong  on  thee.    For  perfect  strains ) 

maj'  float  !/ 

'Neath    master-hands,    from    instru-  ^ 

ments  defaced,  i\. 

And  gi'eat  souls  at  one  stroke  may  do 

and  dote. 


XXXIII. 

Yes,  call  me  by  my  jiet  name  !  let  me 

hear 
The   name  I  used  to  run  at,  when  a 

child. 
From  innocent   plaj*,  and    leave  the 

cowslips  i)iled. 
To  glance  up  in  some  face  that  proved 

me  dear 
With  the  look  of  its  eyes.    I  miss  the 

clear 
Fond  A^oices,  which,  being  drawn  and 

reconciled 
Into  the  music  of  lieaA'cn's  undefiled, 
Call  me  no  longer.    Silence  on  the 

bier. 
While  I  call  God  —  call  God  !     So  let 

thy  mouth 
Be  heir  to  those  Avho  are  now  exani- 
mate. 
Gather  the  north  fiowei's  to  complete 

the  south. 
And   catch  the  early  loA'e  up  in  the 

late. 
Yes,  call  me  by  that  name,  and  I,  in 

truth. 
With   the  same  heart,   will  answer, 

and  not  Avait. 


i 


I    ^m  I  ■  1 1 


426 


SONNETS  FROM   THE  PORTUGUESE. 


\ 


XXXIV. 

With  the  same  heart,  I  said,  I'll  an- 
swer thee 

As  those,  when  thou  shalt  call  lue  by 
my  name. 

Lo,  the  vain  jiromise  !  is  the  same, 
the  same, 

Perplexed  and  ruffled  by  life's  strat- 
egy ? 

When  called  before,  I  told  how  hasti- 
ly 

I  dropped  my  flowers,  or  brake  off 
from  a  game. 

To  run  and  answer  with  the  smile 
that  came 

At  play  last  moment,  and  went  on 
with  me 

Through  my  obedience.  When  I  an- 
swer now, 

I  droji  a  grave  thought,  break  from 
solitude; 

Yet  still  my  heart  goes  to  thee;  pon- 
der how,  — 

Not  as  to  a  single  good,  but  all  my 
good  ! 

Lay  thy  hand  on  it,  best  one,  and 
allow 

That  no  child's  foot  could  run  fast  as 
this  blood. 

XXXV. 

If  I  leave  all  for  thee,  wilt  thou  ex- 
change. 

And  be  all  to  me  ?  Shall  I  never 
miss 

Home-talk  and  blessing,  and  the  com- 
mon kiss 

That  comes  to  each  in  turn,  nor  count 
it  strange. 

When  I  lock  up,  to  drop  on  a  new 
range 

Of  walls  and  floors,  —  another  home 
than  this  ? 

Nay,  wilt  thou  fill  that  place  by  me 
which  is 

Filled  by  dead  eyes  too  tender  to 
know  change  ? 

That's  hardest.  If  to  conquer  love 
has  tried, 

To  conquer  grief  tries  more,  as  all 
things  prove; 

For  grief,  indeed,  is  love  and  grief  be- 
side. 

Alas  !  I  have  grieved  so,  I  am  hard  to 
love. 

Yet  love  me,  wilt  thou  ?  Open  thine 
heart  wide. 

And  fold  within  the  wet  wings  of  thy 
dove. 


XXXVI. 

When  we  met  first  and  loved ,  I  did     (" 
not  build  ^ 

Upon  the  event  with  marble.    Could 
it  mean 

To  last,  —  a  love  set  pendulous  be- 
tween 

Sorrow  and  sorrow  ?    Nay,   I  rather 
thrilled, 

Distrusting  everj'  light  that  seemed 
to  gild 

The  onward  path,  and  feared  to  over- 
lean 

A  finger  even.    And,  though  I  have     \ 
grown  serene  j 

And  strong  since  then,  i  think  that    f 
God  has  willed 

A  still  renewable   fear  .  .  .  O  love,  > 
O  troth  ... 

Lest  these  enclasped    hands    should 
never  hold. 

This  mutual  kiss  drop  down  between    / 
us  both  ' 

As  an  unowned  thing,  once  the  lips 
being  cold. 

And  Love,  be  false  !   if  he,  to  keep 
one  oath. 

Must  lose  one  joy,  by  his  life's  star 
foretold. 


XXXVII. 

Pardon,  oh,  pardon,  that  my  soul 
should  make. 

Of  all  that  strong  divineness  which 
I  know 

For  thine  and  thee,  an  image  onlj 
so 

Formed  of  the  sand,  and  tit  to  shift 
and  break. 

It  is  that  distant  j-ears  which  did  not 
take 

Thy  sovranty,  recoiling  with  a  blow. 

Have  forced  my  swimming  brain  to 
undergo 

Their  doubt  and  dread,  and  blindly 
to  forsake 

Thy  purity  of  likeness,  and  distort 

Thy  worthiest  love  to  a  worthless 
counterfeit: 

As  if  a  shipwrecked  Pagan,  safe  in 
port, 

His  guardian  sea-god  to  commemo- 
rate. 

Should  set  a  sculptured  porpoise, 
gills  a-snort 

And  vibrant  tail,  within  the  temple- 
gate. 


r 


SONNETS   FROM   THE   PORTUGUESE. 


427 


T 


\ 


XXXVIII. 

First  time  he  kissed  me,  lie  but  only 

kissed 
The  fingers  of  this  hand  wherewith  I 

write ; 
And  ever  since,  it  grew  more  clean 

and  white, 
Slow  to  world-greetings,  quick  with 

its  "Oh  list!  " 
"When  the  angels  speak.     A  ring  of 

amethyst 
I  could  not  wear  here  plainer  to  my 

sight 
Than    that    first    kiss.     The    second 

passed  in  height 
The  first,  and  sought  the   forehead, 

and  half  missed, 
/    Half  falling  on  the  hair.     Oh  beyond 
'  meed ! 

That  was  the  chrism  of    love,  which 

love's  own  crown 
\  "With  sanctifying  sweetness  did  iire- 

cede. 
The  third  upon   my   lii^s  was   folded 

down 
In  perfect  purple  state;  since  when, 

indeed, 
I   have  been   proud  and  said ,   ' '  My 
/  love,  my  own." 

/■ 

\  XXXIX. 

Because  thou  hast  the  power,  and 

own'st  the  grace, 
To  look  through  and  behind  this  mask 

of  me, 
(Against  which  years  have  beat  thus 

blau(;hingly 
\   "SVith    their    rains),   and    behold    my 
)  soul's  true  face, 

f    The  dim  and  weary  witness  of  life's 
/  race ; 

Because  thou  hast  the  faith  and  love 

to  see. 
Through  that  same  soul's  distracting 

lethargy. 
The  patient  angel  waiting  for  a  place 
In  the  new  heavens;  because  nor  sin 

nor  woe. 
Nor    God's     infliction,    nor     death's 

neighborhood. 
Nor  all  which  others,  viewing,  turn  to 

go. 
Nor  all  which  makes  me  tired  of  all, 

self-viewed,  — 
Nothing     repels     thee,  .  .  .  dearest, 

teach  me  so 
To  pour  out  gratitude,  as  thou  dost, 
good  ! 


\ 


XL. 

Oh  yes  !  they  love  through   all   this 

world  of  ours  ! 
I  will  not  gainsay  love,  called   love, 

forsooth. 
I  have  heard  love  talked  in  my  early 

youth, 
And  since,  not  so  long  back  but  that 

the  flowers 
Then   gathered  smell  still.    3Iussul- 

mans  and  Giaours 
Throw  kerchiefs  at  a  smile,  and  have 

no  ruth 
For  any  weeping.    Polvpheme's  white 

tooth 
Slips  on   the  mit,   if,   after  frequent 

showers. 
The  shell  is  over-smooth;  and  not  so 

much 
Will  turn  the  thing  called  love  aside 

to  hate. 
Or  else  to  oblivion.     But  thou  art  not 

such 
A    lover,    my    beloved !     thou    canst 

wait 
Through  sorrow  and  sickness,  to  bring 

souls  to  touch. 
And  think  it  soon  when  others  cry, 

"Too  late!" 


XLI. 

I  THANK  all  who  have  loved  me   in 

their  hearts, 
^Yith    thanks   and   love   from    mine. 

Deep  thanks  to  all 
"Who  paused  a  little  near  the  prison- 

\yall 
To.  hear    my    music    in    its    louder 

parts. 
Ere  they  went  onward,  each  one  to 

the  mart's 
Or  temple's  occupation,  beyond  call. 
But  thou,  who,  in  my  voice's  sink  and 

fall 
When  the  sob  took  it,  thj^  divinest 

art's 
Own  instrument  didst  drop  down  at 

thy  foot 
To  hearken  what  I  said  between  my 

tears,  .  .  , 
Instruct  me  how  to  thank  thee  !     Oh, 

to  shoot 
My  soul's  full  meaning  into  future 

years. 
That  they  should  lend  it  utterance, 

and  salute 
Love    that    endures,   from   Life  that 

disappears  ! 


l-*-«-»H 


428 


SONNETS  FROM   THE  PORTUGUESE. 


XLII. 

.  "  Mij  future  w  ill  7iot  copy  fair  mi/ past :  " 
'  I  wrote  that  once:  and  thinking  at 
my  side 

My  ministering  life-angel  justified 

The  word  by  his  appealing  look  up- 
cast 

To  the  white  throne  of  God,  I  turned 
at  last, 

And  there,  instead,  saw  thee,  not  un- 
allied 

To  angels  in  thy  soul.  Then  I,  long 
tried 

By  natural  ills,  received  the  comfort 
fast ; 

While  budding,  at  thy  sight,  my  pil- 
grim's staff 

Gave  out  gi'een  leaves  with  morning 
dews  impearled. 

I  seek  no  copy  now  of  life's  first  half: 

Leave  here  the  pages  with  long  mus- 
ing curled. 

And  write  me  new  my  future's  epi- 
graph, — 

New  angel  mine,  unhojied  for  in  the 
world  ! 


How  do  I  love  thee  ?    Let  me  count 
the  ways. 

IJovetlieeto  the  depth  and  breadth 
and  height 
S^  My  soul  can  reach,  when  feeling  out 
i  of  sight 

For  the  ends  of  being  and  ideal  grace. 

I  love  thee  to  the  level  of  every  day's 

Most  quiet  need,  bv  sun  and  candle- 
light. 

I  love  thee  freely,  as  men  strive  for 
right. 

i  love  thee  purely,  as  they  turn  from 
praise. 


I  love  thee  ^^■ith  the  passion  put  to 
use 

In  my  old  griefs,  and  with  my  child- 
hood's faith. 

I  love  thee  with  a  love  I  seemed  to 
lose 

With  my  lost  saints.  I  love  thee  with 
the  breath. 

Smiles,  tears,  of  all  my  life;  and,  if 
God  choose, 

I  shall  but  love  thee  better  after 
death. 

XLIV. 

Beloved,  thou  hast  brought  me  many 

flowers 
Plucked  in  the  garden  all  the  sum- 
mer through 
And  winter;  and  it  seemed  as  if  they 

grew 
In  this  close  room,  uor  missed  the  sun 

and  showers. 
So,  in  the  like  name  of  that  love  of 

ours. 
Take  back  these  thoughts  which  here 

unfolded  too, 
And  which  on  warm  and  cold  days  I 

withdrew 
From  my  heart's  ground.      Indeed, 

those  beds  and  bowers 
Be  overgrown  with  bitter  weeds  and 

rue, 
And  wait  thy   weeding;    yet    here's 

eglantine. 
Here's  ivy  !     Take  them,  as  I  used  to 

do 
Thy  flowers,  and  keep  them  where 

thej'  shall  not  pine. 
Instruct  thine  eyes  to  keep  their  col- 
ors true. 
And  tell  thy  soul  their  roots  are  left 

in  mine. 


"  1  heard,  last  night,  a  little  child  go  singing 
'Neath  Casa  Guidi  windows  by  the  church."  —  Page  429. 


CASA   GUIDI  WINDOWS. 


'3  IPortn, 


IN    TWO    PARTS. 


This  poem  contains  the  impressions  of  the  writer  npon  events  in  Tuscany 
of  which  she  was  a  witness.  "  From  a  window,"  the  critic  may  demur.  She 
bows  to  the  objection  in  tlie  very  title  of  her  work.  No  continuous  narrative 
nor  exposition  of  political  jihilosophy  is  attempted  by  her.  It  is  a  simple 
story  of  personal  impressions,  whose  only  value  is  in  the  intensity  with 
which  they  were  received,  as  proving  her  warm  affection  for  a  beautiful  and 
unfortunate  country,  and  the  sincerity  with  which  they  are  related,  as  indi- 
cating her  own  good  faith,  and  freedom  from  partisanship. 

Of  the  two  parts  of  this  poem,  the  first  was  written  nearly  three  years  ago; 
while  the  second  resumes  the  actual  situation  of  1851.  The  discrepancy 
between  the  two  parts  is  a  sufficient  guaranty  to  the  public  of  the  truthful- 
ness of  the  writer,  who,  though  she  certainly  escaped  the  epidemic  "falling 
sickness  "  of  enthusiasm  for  Pio  Nono,  takes  shame  upon  herself  that  she  be- 
lieved, like  a  woman,  some  royal  oaths,  and  lost  sight  of  the  probable  con- 
sequences of  some  obvious  popular  defects.  If  the  discrepancy  should  be 
painful  to  the  reader,  let  him  understand  that  to  the  writer  it  has  been  more 
so.  But  such  discrepancies  wo  are  called  upon  to  accept  at  every  hour  by 
the  conditions  of  our  nature,  implying  the  interval  between  aspiration  and 
performance,  between  faith  and  disillusion,  between  hope  and  fact. 

"  O  trusted  broken  prophecy, 
O  richest  fortune  sourly  crosst, 
Born  for  the  future,  to  the  future  lost!  " 


Nay,  not  lost  to  the  future  in  this  case, 
disinherited. 
Florence,  1851. 


The  future  of  Italy  shall  not  be 


PART  I. 

I  HEARD  last  night  a  little   child  go 
singing 
'Neath  Casa  Guidi  windows,  by  the 
church, 
"  0  hella  liberta,  O  belli i  !  ''  stringing 
The  same  words   still  on  notes,  he 
went  in  search 
So  high  for,  you  concluded   the  up- 
springing 
Of  such  a  nimble  bird  to  sky  from 
perch 


Must  leave  the  whole  bush  in  a  trem- 
ble green. 
And  that  the  heart  of  Italy  must 
beat, 
"While  such  a  voice  had  leave  to  rise 
serene 
'Twixt  church  and  palace  of  a  Flor- 
ence street: 
A  little  child,  too,  who  not  long  had 
been 
By  mother's  finger  steadied  on  his 
feet. 
And  still  "  0  hella  liberta  "  he  sang. 

429 


430 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


Then  I  thought,  musing,  of  the  innu- 
merous 
Sweet  songs  which  still   for  Italy 
outrang 
From  older  singers"  lips,  who  sang  not 
thus 
Exultingly   and    purely,   yet,    with 
pang  ' 
Fast  sheathed  in  music,  touched  the 
heart  of  us 
So    finely,   that    the    pity  scarcely 
pained. 
I  thought  how  Filicaja  led  on  others, 
Bewailers  tor  their  Italy  encliained. 
And    how    they    call     her    childless 
among  mothers, 
Widow  of  empires,  ay,  and  scarce 
refrained 
Cursing  her  beauty  to  her  face,   as 
brothers 
Might  a    shamed    sister's,  —  "Had 
she  been  less  fair, 
She    were     less    wretched."  —  how, 
evoking  so 
From      congregated     wrong      and 
heaped  despair 
Of   men  and  women  writhing   under 
blow. 
Harrowed  and   hideous  in  a  filthy 
lair. 
Some  personating  image  wherein  woe 
AVas  wrapt  in  beauty  from  offend- 
ing much. 
They  called  it  Cybele,  or  Niobe, 
Or  laid  it  corpse-like  on  a  bier  for 
such , 
Where  all  the  world  might  drop  for 
Italy 
Those  cadenced  tears  which   burn 
not  where  they  touch,  — 
"  Juliet  of  nations,  canst  thou  die  as 
we? 
And    was    the    violet    crown    that 
crowned  thy  head 
So  over-large,  though  new  buds  made 
it  rough. 
It  slipped  down,  and  across  thine 
eyelids  dead, 
O  sweet,  fair  Juliet  ?  "     Of  such  songs 
enough, 
Too  many  of  such  complaints  !    Be- 
hold, instead, 
Void     at    Verona,    Juliet's     marble 
trough :  i 
As  void  as  that  is,  are  all  images 
Men    set    between    themselves    and 
actual  wrong 

'  They  i^liow  at  Verona,  as  the   tomb  of 
Juliet,  au  euiply  trough  of  stone. 


To  catch  the  weight  of  pity,  meet 
the  stress 
Of  conscience;  since  'tis  easier  to  gaze 
long 
On  mournful  masks  and  sad  effigies 
Than   on   real,    live,    weak   creatures 
crushed  by  strong. 

For  me,  who  stand  in  Italy  to-day 
Where  worthier  jjoets  stood  and  sang 
before, 
I    kiss    their    footsteps,    yet    their 
words  gainsay. 
I  can   but  muse   in   hope  vipon    this 
shore 
Of  golden  Arno  as  it  shoots  away 
Through  Florence'  heart  beneath  her 
bridges  four,  — 
Bent  bridges  seeming  to  strain  off 
like  bows, 
And  tremble  while  the  arrowy  under- 
tide 
Shoots  on,  and  cleaves  the  marble 
as  it  goes. 
And  strikes  up  palace-walls  on  either 
side, 
And  froths  the  cornice  out  in  glit- 
tering rows, 
With    doors    and   windows   quaintly 
multiplied, 
And  terrace-sweeps,  and  gazers  up- 
on all, 
By  whom  if  flower  or  kerchief  were 
thrown  out 
From  any  lattice  there,  the   same 
would  fall 
Into  the  river  underneath,  no  doubt. 
It  runs  so  close  and  fast  'twixt  wall 
and  wall. 
How  beautiful  !     The  mountains  from 
without 
In  silence  listen  for  the  word  said 
next. 
What   word    will    men    say,  —  here 
where  Giotto  planted 
His  campanile  like  au  unperplext 
Fine  question  heavenward,  touching 
the  things  granted 
A  noble  people,  who,  being  greatly 
vext 
In  act,  in  aspiration  keep  undaunted  ? 
What  word  will  God  say  ?     Michel's 
Night  and  Day 
And  Dawn  and  Twilight  wait  in  mar- 
ble scorn, 1 

1  These  famous  statues  rechne  in  the  Sa- 
garestia  Nuova,  on  the  tombs  of  Ghiliano  de' 
Medici,  third  son  of  Lorenzo  the  Magnifl- 
cent,  and  Lorenzo  of  Urbino,  his  grandson. 


CAS  A    GUIDl    WINDOWS. 


431 


Like  dogs  upon  a  dunghill,  couched 
on  clay 
From  whence  the  Medicean  stamp's 
outworn, 
The  final  putting-off    of    all    such 
sway 
By  all  such  hands,  and  freeing  of  the 
unborn 
In  Florence  and  the  great   world 
outside  Florence. 
Three  hundred  years  his  patient  stat- 
ues wait 
In  that  small  chapel  of  the  dim  St. 
Lawrence : 
Day's  eyes  are  breaking  bold  and  pas- 
sionate 
Over   his   shoulder,  and    will    flash 
abhorrence 
On   darkness,    and   with    level   looks 
meet  fate. 
When  once  loose  from  that  marble 
film  of  theirs; 
The   Night   has  wild   dreams    in   her 
sleep,  the  Dawn 
Is  haggard  as  the  sleepless,  Twi- 
light wears 
A   sort   of  horror;   us   the   veil  with- 
drawn 
'Twixt  the  artist's  soul  and  works 
had  left  them  heirs 
Of  speechless  thoughts  which  would 
not  quail  nor  fawn. 
Of  angers  and  contempts,  of  hope 
and  love: 
For  not  without  a  meaning  did  he 
place 
The  princely   Urbino  on   the    seat 
above 
With  everlasting  shadow  on  his  face, 
While  the  slow  dawns  and  twilights 
disapprove 
The    ashes   of    his   long-extinguished 
race 
Which  never  more  shall   clog  the 
feet  of  men. 
I  do  believe,  divinest  Angelo, 
That    winter-hour    in    Via    Larga, 
when 
They  bade  thee  build  a  statue  up  in 
snoWji 
And  straight  that  marvel  (.if   thine 
art  again 
Dissolved  beneath  the  sun's  Italian 
glow, 

Strozzi's   epigram   on  the   Night,  with   Mi- 
chel Aiigelo's  rejoinder,  is  well  known. 

1  This  mocking  task  was  set  by  Pietro, 
the  unworthy  successor  of  Lorenzo  theMag- 
nilicent. 


Thine  eyes,  dilated  with  the  plastic 
passion, 
Thawing,  too,  in  drops  of  wounded 
manhood,  since. 
To  mock  alike  thine  art  and  indig- 
nation. 
Laughed    at  the   palace-window  the 
new  prince,  — 
("  Aha!   this  genius  needs  for  ex- 
altation. 
When    all's    said,   and    howe'er    the 
proud  may  wince, 
A  little   marble  from  our  princely 


mines 


') 


I  do  believe  that  hour  thou  laughedst 
too 
For  the  whole  sad  world,  and  for 
thy  Florentines, 
After    those  few  tears,   which  were 
onlj'  few ! 
That  as,  beneath  the  sun,  the  grand 
white  lines 
Of    thy    snow-statue    trembled    and 
withdrew,  — 
The   head,   erect  as  Jove's,   being 
l^alsied  first. 
The  eyelids  flattened,  the  full  brow 
turned  blank. 
The  right  hand,  raised  but  now  as 
if  it  curst, 
Dropt,  a  mere  snowball  (till  the  peo- 
l^le  sank 
Their  voices,  though  a  louder  laugh- 
ter burst 
From      the      royal      window)  —  thou 
couldst  j)roudly  thank 
God  and  the  prince  for  jiromise  and 
presage. 
And  laugh  the   laugh  back,  I  think 
verily. 
Thine  ej^es  being  purged  by  tears 
of  righteous  rage 
To  read  a  wrong  into  a  prophecy, 
And  measure   a  true  great  man's 
heritage 
Against  a  mere  great-duke's  posterity. 
I   think  thy  soul  said  then,  "I  do 
not  need 
A   princedom   and  its  quarries,  after 
all; 
For  if  I  write,  paint,  carve  a  word, 
indeed. 
On  book,  or  board,  or  dust,  on  floor, 
or  wall. 
The  same  is  kept  of  God,  who  taketh 
heed 
That  not  a  letter  of  the  meaning  fall 
Or  ere  it  touch  and  teach  his  world's 
deei)  heart, 


432 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


Outlasting,  therefore,   all   your  lord- 
ships, sir  ! 
So  keeji  your  stone,  beseech  you, 
for  your  jiart, 
To    cover  up   your   grave-place,   and 
refer 
The  pi-oper  titles:  I  live  hy  my  art. 
The  thought  I  tlirew  into  this  snow 
shall  stir 
This  gazing  people  vrhen  their  gaze 
is  done; 
And  the  tradition  of    your  act  and 
mine. 
When  all  the  snow  is  melted  in  the 
sun. 
Shall  gather  up  for  unborn  men  a  sign 
Of  what  is  the  true  j^rincedom;  ay, 
and  none 
Shall  laugh  that  day,  except  the  drunk 
with  wine.'" 

^  Amen,  great  Angelo.!  the  day's  at 
^         hand. 

If   many   laugh   not   on    it,  shall   we 
weep  ? 
Much  more  we  must  not,  let  us  un- 
derstand. 
Through    rhymers    sonneteering    in 
their  sleep, 
And  archaists  mumbling  dry  bones 
up  the  land. 
And  sketchers  lauding  ruined  towns 
a-heap,  — 
Through   all   that   drowsy   hum    of 
voices  smooth, 
The    hojieful    bird   mounts  carolling 
from  brake, 
The   hopefiil   child,    with   leaps    to 
catch  his  growth. 
Sings  open-eyed  for  liberty's  sweet 
sake; 
And  I,  a  singer  also  from  my  youth. 
Prefer  to   sing  with   these   who    are 
awake, 
"With  birds,  with  babes,  with  men 
who  will  not  fear 
The  baptism  of  the  holy  morning  dew, 
(And  many  of  such  wakers  now  are 
here, 
Complete  in  their  anointed  manhood, 
who 
Will  greatly  dare,  and  greatlier  per- 
severe,) 
Thau  join  those  old  thin  voices  with 
my  new, 
And  sigh  for  Italy  with  some  safe 
sigh 
Cooped  up  in  music  'twixt  an  oh  and 
ah: 


Nay,  hand  in  hand  with  that  young 
child  will  I 
Go  singing  rather,  "  Bella  liberta," 
Than,  with  those  poets,  croon  the 
dead,  or  cry 

"  Se  tu  men  bella  fossi,  Italia  !  " 

II— 

"  Le.ss  wretched  if  less  fair."     Per- 
haps a  truth 
Is  so  far  plain  in  this,  that  Italy, 
Long  trammelled  with  the  purple 
of  her  youth 
Against  her  age's  ripe  activity. 
Sits  still  upon  her  tombs,  without 
death's  ruth. 
But  also  without  life's  brave  energy. 
"  Now  tell  us  what  is  Italy  ?  "  men 
ask; 
And  others  answer,  "  Virgil,  Cicero, 
Catullus,    Csesar.-'      What    beside, 
to  task 
The  memory  closer  ?  —  "  Whj%  Boc- 
caccio, 
Dante,  Petrarca,"  —  and  if  still  the 
liask 
Appears  to  yield  its  wine  by  drops  too 
slow, — 
"  Angelo,  Raffael,  Pergolese,"  —  all 
Whose    strong    hearts    beat  through 
stone,  or  charged  again 
The  paints  with  lire  of  souls  electri- 
cal. 
Or  broke  up  heaven  for  music.    What 
more  then  ? 
Why,  then,  no  more.     The  chaplet's 
last  beads  fall 
In  naming  the  last   saintship  within 
ken. 
And,  after  that,  none  prayeth  in  the 
land. 
Alas  !  this  Italy  has  too  long  swept 

Heroic  ashes  up  for  hour-glass  sand ; 
Of  her  own  past,  impassioned  nympho- 
lept! 
Consenting  to  be  nailed  here  by  the 
hand 
To  the  very  bay-tree  under  which  she 
stept 
A    queen    of    old,   and    plucked    a 
leafy  branch ; 
And,  licensing  the  world  too  long  in- 
deed 
To  use  her  broad  lahylacteries  to 
stanch 
And  stop  her  bloody  lips,  she   takes 
no  heed 
How  one  clear  word  would  draw  an 
avalanche 
Of  living  sons  around  her  to  succeed 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


433 


The     vanished     generations.     Can 
she  count 
These    oil-eaters    with    larjie,     live. 
mobile  mouths 
Agape  for  macaroni,  in  the  amount 
Of  consecrated  hei'oes  of  her  south's 
Bright  rosary  ?    The  pitcher  at  the 
fount. 
The  gift  of  gods,  being  broken,  she 
much  loathes 
To    let    the    ground-leaves    of    the 
place  confer 
A  natural  bowl.     So  henceforth  she 
would  seem 
No  nation,  but  the  poet's  pensioner, 
With  alms  from  every  land   of  song 
and  dream. 
While  aye  her  pipers  sadly  pipe  of 
her 
Until  their  proper  breaths,  in  that  ex- 
treme 
Of  sighing,  split  the  reed  on  which 
the  J'  played; 
Of  which,  no  more.     But  never  say 
"  No  more  " 
To  Italy's  life  !    Her  memories  un- 
dismayed 
Still  argue  "evermore;"  her  graves 
implore 
Her  future  to  be  strong,  and  not 
afraid ; 
Her  very  statues  send  their  looks  be- 
fore. 

We  do  not  serve  the  dead:  the  past 
is  past. 
God  lives,  and  lifts  his  glorious  morn- 
ings up 
Before  the   eyes  of  men  awake  at 
last, 
Who  put  away  the  meats  they  used  to 
sup. 
And  down  upon  the  dust  of  earth 
outcast 
The  dregs  remaining  of  the  ancient 
cup. 
Then  turned  to  wakeful  i^rayer  and 
worthy  act. 
The  dead,  upon  their  awful  'vantage 
ground, 
The  sun  not  in  their  faces,  shall  a1> 
stract 
No  more  our  strength :  we  will  not  be 
discrowned 
As  guardians  of  their  crowns,  nor 
deign  transact 
A  barter  of  the  present,  for  a  sound 
Of  good  so  counted  in  the  foregone 
days. 


O  dead !   ye  shall   no  longer  cling  to 
us 
With    rigid    hands    of    desiccating 
praise, 
And  ilrag  us  backward  by  the  gar- 
ment thus. 
To  stand  and  laud    you    in    long- 
drawn  virelays. 
We  will  not  henceforth  be  oblivious 
Of  our  own  lives,  because  ye  lived 
before. 
Nor  of    our  acts,  because    ye    acted 
well. 
We    thank    you    that   ye  first  un- 
latched the  door, 
But  will  not  make  it  inaccessible 
By  thankings  on  the  threshold  any 
more. 
We  hurry  onward  to  extinguish  hell 
With  our  fresh  souls,  our  younger 
hope,  and  God's 
Maturity  of  purpose.     Soon  shall  we 
Die  also,  and,  that  then  our  periods 
Of  life  may  round  themselves  to  mem- 
ory 
As  smoothly  as  on  our  graves  the 
burial-sods. 
We  now  must  look  to  it  to  excel  as 

ye, 

And  bear  our  age  as  far,  unlimited 
By  the  last  mind-mark;  so,  to  be  in- 

A^oked 
By    future    generations,    as    their 

dead. 

'Tis  true,  that,  when  the  dust  of  death 
has  choked 
A  great  man's  voice,  the  common 
words  he  said 
Turn   oracles,  the  common  thoughts 
he  yoked 
Like  horses,  draw  like  grifflns:  this 
is  true  >*^ 

And  acceptable.    I,   too,  should  de- 
sire. 
When  men  make  record  with  the 
flowers  they  strew, 
"  Savonarola's  soul  went  out  in  fire 
Ui-ion  our  Grand-duke's  piazza, i  and 
burned  through 
A  moment  first,  or  ere  he  did  expire, 
The    veil    betwixt    the    right    and 
Avrong,  and  showed 

'  Savonarola  was  burnt  for  his  testimony 
against  papal  corruptions  as  early  as  March, 
1498:  and,  as  l.ate  as  our  own  day,  it  has 
been  a  custom  in  Florence  to  strew  with  vio- 
lets the  pavement  where  he  suffered,  in 
grateful  recognition  of  the  anniversary. 


i 


i 


434 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


How  near  God  sate   and  judged  the 
judges  there," -V 
Ufion  the  self-sanie  pavement  over- 
strewed 
To  cast  my  A'iolets  with  as  reverent 
care. 
And    i>rove    that    all    the    winters 
which  have  snowed 
Cannot    snow    out    the    scent    from 
stones  and  air, 
Of  a  sincere  man's  virtues.    This 
was  he, 
Savonarola,  who,  while  Peter  sank 
With    his  whole    boat-load,   called 
courageously, 
"  Wake  Christ,  wake  Christ !  "  who, 
having  tried  thp  tank 
Of  old  church-waters  used  for  bap- 
tistry 
Ere  Luther  came  to  spill  them,  swore 
they  stank; 
Who  also  by  a  princely  death-bed 
cried, 
"  Loose    Florence,   or    God  will  not 
loose  thy  soul  !  " 
Then  fell  back  the  Magnificent,  and 
died 
Beneath  the  star-look  shooting  from 
the  cowl. 
Which  turned  to  wormwood-bitter- 
ness the  wide 
Deep  sea  of  his  ambitions.     It  were 
foul 
To  grudge  Savonarola  and  the  rest 
Their  violets:  rather  pay  them  quick 
and  fresh. 
The  emphasis  of  death  makes  mani- 
fest 
The  eloquence  of  action  in  our  flesh; 
And  men  who  living  were  but  dim- 
ly guessed, 
When  once  free  from  their  life's  en- 
tangled mesh. 
Show  their  full  length  in  graves,  or 
oft  indeed 
Exaggerate  their  stature,  in  the  flat, 
To    noble    admirations  which    ex- 
ceed 
Most  nobly,  yet  will  calculate  in  that 
But  accurately.    We  who  are  the 
seed 
Of  buried  creatures,  if  we  turned  and 
spat 
Ulion    our    antecedents,    Ave    were 
vile. 
Bring  violets  rather.     If    these    had 
not  walked 
Their    furlong,   could   we    hope    to 
walk  our  mile  ? 


Therefore  Ijring  violets.    Yet  if  we, 
self-balked. 
Stand    still,   a-strewing  violets  all 
the  while. 
These  moved  in  vain,  of  whom  we 
have  vainly  talked. 
So  rise  up  henceforth  with  a  cheer- 
ful smile, 
And,  having  strewn  the  violets,  reap 
the  corn. 
And,  having  reaped  and  garnered, 
bring  the  plough 
And    draw   new   furrows   'neath   the 
healtliA'  morn. 
And  plant  the  great  Hereafter  in 
this  Now. 

Of  old  'twas   so.     How  step   by  step 
was  worn, 
As  each  man  gained  on  each  secure- 
ly !  how 
Each  by  his  own  strength  sought  his 
own  Ideal, — 
The  "ultimate    Perfection    leaning 
bright 
From  out  the  sun  and  stars  to  bless 
the  leal 
And  earnest  search  of  all  for  Fair 
and  Right 
Through  doubtful  forms  by  earth  ac- 
counted real ! 
Because    old  Jubal  blew   into  de- 
light 
The  souls  of    men  with   clear-piped 
melodies. 
If  youthful  Asaph  were  content  at 
most 
To  draw  from  Jubal's  grave,  with  lis- 
tening eyes, 
Traditionary  music's  floating  ghost 
Into  the  grass-grown  silence,  were  it 
wise  ? 
And  was't  not  wiser,  Jubal's  breath 
being  lost. 
That  Miriam  clashed  her  cymbals  to 
surprise 
The  sun  between  her  white  arms 
flung  apart. 
With  new  glad  golden  sounds  ?  that 
David's  strings 
O'erflowed    his    hand    with    music 
from  his  heart '.' 
So   harmony  grows   full    from   many 
springs, 
And  happy  accident  turns  holy  art. 


You  enter,  in  your  Florence  wander- 
ings, 


-I      —  I  ■  I  ^ 


CAS  A    QUID  I    WINDOWS. 


435 


The  Church  of   St.  Maria  Novella. 
Pass 
The  left  stair,  where  at  plague-time 
Maehiavel  i 
Saw  one  with  set  fair  face  as  in  a 
glass, 
Dresso<^l  out  against  the  fear  of  death 
and  hell, 
Rustling  her  silks  in  pauses  of  the 
mass 
To  keep  the  thought  off  how  her  hus- 
liand  fell, 
When  she  left  home,  stark    dead 
across  her  feet,  — 
The  stair  leads  up  to  what  the   Or- 
gagnas  save 
Of  Dante's  demons;   you   in  pass- 
ing it 
Ascend  the  right  stair  from   the  far- 
ther nave 
To  muse  in  a  small  chapel  scarcely 
lit 
By    Cimabue's    Virgin.     Bright    and 
brave. 
That  picture  was  accounted,  mark, 
of  old: 
A  king  stood  bare  before  its  sovran 
grace,'- 
A  reverent  people  shouted  to  be- 
hold 
The  picture,  not  the  king:  and  even 
the  place 
Containing   such    a    miracle    grew 
bold. 
Named  the    Glad    Boi-go   from    that 
beauteous  face 
Which  thrilled  the  artist  after  work 
to  think 
His    own    ideal    Mary-smile    should 
stand 
So  very  near  him,  —  he,  within  the 
brink 
Of  all  that  glory,  let  in  by  his  hand 
With  too  diriue   a  rashness  I    Yet 
none  shrink 
Who  come  to  gaze  here  now:   albeit 
'twas  planned 
Sublimely  in  the  thought's  simpli- 
city. " 

'  See  bis  desci'iiition  of  the  plague  in 
Florence. 

-  Charles  of  Anjou,  in  his  passage  tlirough 
Florence,  was  penuiUed  to  see  this  picture 
while  yet  in  Cimabuo's  "  bottega."  The 
populace  followed  the  royal  visitor,  aud, 
from  the  luiiversal  delight  aud  u,dniiration, 
the  quarter  of  the  city  in  which  the  artist 
Uvcd  was  called  "Borgo  Allegri."  The 
picture  was  carried  in  triumpli  to  the  church, 
and  deposited  there. 


The  Lady,  throned  in  empyreal  state, 
blinds   only  the  young  Babe   upon 
her  knee. 
While  sidelong  angels  bear  the  royal 
weight, 
Prostrated    meekly,     smiling    ten- 
derly 
Oblivion   of    their   wings;    the    child 
thereat 
Stretching  its  hand  like    (rod.     If 
any  should. 
Because  of  some  stiff  draperies  and 
loose  joints. 
Gaze  scorn  down  from  the  heights 
of  Raffaelhood 
On  Cimabue's  picture.  Heaven  anoints 
The  head  of  no  such  critic,  and  his 
blood 
The  poet's  curse  strikes  full  on,  and 
appoints 
To  ague  and  cold   spasms  forever- 
more. 
A  noble  picture  !  worthy  of  the  shout 
Wherewith  along  the    streets    the 
people  bore 
Its  cherub-faces  which  the  stin  threw 
out 
Until  they  stooped,  and  entered  the 
church-door. 
Yet  rightly  was  young  Giotto  talked 
about, 
Whom  Cimabue  found  among  the 
sheep,i 
And  knew,  as  gods  know  gods,  and 
carried  home 
To  paint  the  things  he  had  painted, 
with  a  deep 
And  fuller  insight,  aud  so  overcome 
His  Chapel-Lady  with  a  heavenlier 
sweep 
Of  light;  for  thus  we  mount  into  the 
sum 
Of   great  things  known    or  acted. 
I  hold,  too, 
That  Cimabue  smiled  upon  the  lad 
At  the  first   stroke   which    passed 
what  he  could  do, 
Or  else  his  Yirgin'.s  smile  had  never 
had 
Such  sweetness  in't.    All  great  men 
who  foreknew 
Their  heirs  in  art,  for  art's  sake  have 
been  glad, 

'  How  Cimabue  found  Giotto,  the  shep- 
herd-boy, sketching  a  ram  of  his  flock  upon 
a  stone,  is  prettily  told  by  A^asari,  who  also 
relates  that  the  elder  artist  Margberitone 
died  "  infastidito "  of  the  successes  of  the 
new  school. 


436 


CAS  A   GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


If 
And 


And  bent  their  old  white  heads  as 
if  uncrowned, 
Fanatics  of  their  pure  ideals  still 
Far  more  than  of  their  triumphs, 
which  were  found 
With  some  less  vehement  struggle  of 
the  will. 

old     Margheritone     trembled, 
swooned, 

died    despairing    at    the    open 
sill 

Of  other  men's  achievements  (who 
achieved 
By  loving  art  beyond  the  master)  he 
Was    old    Margheritone,   and    con- 
ceived 
Never,  at  first  youth  and  most  ecsta- 
sy. 
A  Virgin  like  that  dream  of  one, 
which  heaved 
The  death-sigh  from    his    heart.     If 
wistfully 
Margheritone  sickened  at  the  smell 
Of  Cimabue's  laurel,  let  him  go  ! 

For  Cimabue  stood  up  very  well 
In  spite  of  Giotto's,  and  Angelico 
The  artist-saint  kept  smiling  in  his 
cell 
The  smile  with  which  he  welcomed 
the  sweet  slow 
Inbreak      of      angels      (whitening 
through  the  dim 
That  he  might  paint  them)  while  the 
sudden  sense 
Of  Raffael's  future  was  revealed  to 
him 
By  force  of  his  own  fair  works'  com- 
petence. 
The  same  blue   waters  where  the 
dolphins  swim 

the    tritons.     Through    the 
blue  immense 
Strike  out,  all  swimmers  !  cling  not 
in  the  way 
Of  one  another,  so  to  sink,  but  learn 
The  strong  man's    impulse,   catch 
the  freshening  spray 
He  throws  up  in  his  motions,  and  dis- 
cern 
By    his    clear    westering    eye,   the 
time  of  day. 
Thou,  God,  hast  set  us  worthy  gifts 
to  earn 
Besides  thy  heaven  and  thee  !  and 
when  I  saj^ 
There's  room   here  for  the  weakest 
man  alive 
To  live  and  die,  there's  room,  too, 
I  repeat, 


Suggest 


For  all  the  strongest  to  live  well,  and 
strive 
Their  own  way  by  their  individual 
heat. 
Like  some    new   bee-swarm    leaving 
the  old  hive, 
Desj^ite  the  wax  which  tempts  so 
violet-sweet. 
Then  let  the  living  live,  the  dead  re- 
tain 
Their    grave-cold  flowers !    though 
honor's  best  supplied 
By  bringing  actions  to  prove  theirs 
not  vain. 

Cold  graves,  we  say  ?  it  shall  be 
testified 
That  living  men  who  burn  in  heart 
and  brain, 
Without  the  dead  were  colder.    If 
we  tried 
To  sink  the  past  beneath  our  feet,  be 
sure 
The  future  would  not  stand.    Pre- 
cipitate 
This  old  roof  from  the  shrine,  and,  in- 
secure, 
The  nesting  swallows  fly  off,  mate 
from  mate. 
How  scant  the  gardens,  if  the  graves 
were  fewer ! 
The    tall    green    poplars    grew    no 
longer  straight 
Whose    tops    not    looked    to    Troy. 
Would  any  fight 
For  Athens,  and  not  swear  by  Mara- 
thon? 
Who    dared  build  temples,   without 
tombs  in  sight? 
Or  live,  without  some  dead  man's 
benison  ? 
Or    seek  truth,   hope  for  good,   and 
strive  for  right, 
If,  looking  up,  he  saw  not  in  the 
sun 
Some  angel  of  the  martyrs    all    day 
long 
Standing  and  waiting  ?    Your  last 
rhythm  will  need 
Your  earliest  keynote.     Could  I  sing 
this  song. 
If  my  dead  masters  had  not  taken 
heed 
To   help  the  heavens  and    earth    to 
make  me  strong, 
As  the  wind  ever  will  find  out  some 
reed. 
And  touch  it  to  such  issues  as  be- 
long 


(-♦-■-•H 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


487 


To  such  a  frail  thing?    None  may 
grudge  the  dead 
Libations  from  full  cups.    Unless  we 
choose 
To  look  back  to  the  hills  behind  us 
spread, 
The  i^lains  before  us  sadden  and  con- 
fuse : 
If  orphaned,  we  are  disinherited. 

I  would  but  turn  these  lachrymals  to 
use, 
And  pour  fresh  oil  in  from  the  olive- 
grove. 
To  furnish  them  as  new  lamps.     Shall 
I  say 
What  made  my  heart  beat  with  ex- 
ulting love 
A  few  daj's  back  ?  — 

The  day  was  such  a  day 
As  Florence  owes    the    sun.    The 
sky  above. 
Its  weight  upon  the  mountains  seemed 
to  lay. 
And  palpitate  in  glory,  like  a  dove 
Who  has  flown  too  fast,  full-hearted  — 
take  away 
The  image  !   for  the  heart  of  man 
beat  higher 
That  day  in  Florence,  flooding  all  her 
streets 
And  piazzas  with  a  tumult  and  de- 
sire. 
The  people,  with  accumulated  heats. 
And  faces  turned  one  way,  as  if  one 
fire 
Both    drew    and    flushed    them,   left 
their  ancient  beats, 
And  went  up  toward  the  palace- 
Pitti  wall 
To  thank  their  Graud-duke,  who,  not 
quite  of  course, 
Had  graciously  permitted,  at  their 
call, 
The  citizens  to  use  their  civic  force 
To  guard  their  civic    homes.     So, 
one  and  all. 
The  Tuscan  cities  streamed  up  to  the 
source 
Of  this  new  good  at  Florence,  tak- 
ing it 
As  good  so  far,  presageful  of  more 
good,— 
The  first  torch  of  Italian  freedom, 
lit 
To  toss  in  the  next  tiger's  face  who 
should 
Approach  too  near  them  in  a  greedy 
fit,— 


The  first  pulse   of  an  even  flow  of 
blood 
To  prove  the  level  of  Italian  veins 
Towards  rights  jierceived  and  grant- 
ed.    How  we  gazed 
From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  while, 
in  trains 
Of     orderly      procession  —  banners 
raised, 
And  intermittent  bursts  of  martial 
strains 
Which    died    upon   the   shout,    as   if 
amazed 
By  gladness  beyond  music  —  they 
passed  on  ! 
The  Magistracy,with  insignia,  passed, 
And  all  the  jieople  shouted  in  the 
sun. 
And  all  the  thousand  windows  which 
had  cast 
A  ripple  of  silks  in  blue  and  scarlet 
down, 
(As  if  the  houses  overflowed  at  last,) 
Seemed  growing    larger  with    fair 
heads  and  ej^es. 
The  Lawyers  passed,  and  still  arose 
the  shout, 
And  hands  broke  from  the  windows 
to  surprise 
Those  grave,  calm  brows  with  bay- 
tree  leaves  thrown  out. 
The  Priesthood  passed,   the  friars 
with  worldly-wise 
Keen,    sidelong    glances    from    their 
beards  about 
The  street  to  see  who  shouted ;  many 
a  monk 
Who  takes  a  long  rope  in  the  waist 
was  there: 
Whereat    the    popular    exultation 
drunk 
With    Indrawn   "vivas"   the    whole 
sunny  air. 
While  through  the  murmuring  win- 
dows rose  and  sunk 
A  cloud  of  kerchiefed  bauds,  —  "  The 
Church  makes  fair 
Her  welcome    in    the   new  Pope's 
name."     Ensued 
The  black  sign  of  the  "  Martyrs  "  — 
(name  no  name. 
But  count  the  graves  in  silence.) 
Next  were  viewed 
The  Artists;   next  the  Trades;   and 
after  came 
The    People,  —  tlag    and  sign,   and 
rights  as  good,  — 
And  very  loud  the  shout  was  for  that 
same 


I 


438 


CAS  A   GUIDI   WINDOWS. 


Motto,  "  II  popolo."    Il  Popolo, — 
The  word  means  dukedom,  empire, 
majesty. 
And  kings  in  such  an  hour  might 
read  it  so. 
And  next,  with  banners,  each  in  his 
degree, 
Deputed  representatives  a-row 
Of  every  separate  state  of  Tuscany: 
Siena's   she-wolf,   bristling  on  the 
fold 
Of  the  first  flag,  preceded  Pisa's  hare; 
And  Massa's   lion   floated  calm  in 
gold, 
Pienza's    following    with    his    silver 
stare ; 
Arezzo's  steed  pranced  clear  from 
bridle-hold,  — 
And  well  might  shout  our  Florence, 
greeting  there 
These,   and  more  brethren.     Last, 
the  world  had  sent 
The  various  children  of  her  teeming 
flanks  — 
Greeks,  English,  French — as  if  to 
a  parliament 
Of  lovers  of  her  Italy  in  ranks. 

Each  bearing  its  land's  symbol  rev- 
erent; 
At  which  the  stones  seemed  breaking 
into  thanks, 
And    rattling    up    the    sky,    such 
sounds  in  proof 
Arose,  the  very  house- walls  seemed  to 
bend ; 
The  very  windows,  up  from  door  to 
roof. 
Flashed  out  a  rapture  of  bright  heads, 
to  njend 
With  passionate  looks  the  gesture's 
whirling  off 
A  hurricane  of  leaves.     Three  hours 
did  end 
While  all  these  passed;  and  ever,  in 
the  crowd, 
Rude  men,  unconscious  of  the  tears 
that  ke]it 
Their  beards  moist,  shouted;  some 
few  laughed  aloud, 
And     none     asked     any     why    they 
laughed  and  wept: 
Friends  kissed  each  other's  cheeks, 
and  foes  long  vowed 
More    warmly    did    it;    two-months 
babies  Icajjt 
Right    upward    in    their    mother's 
arms,  whose  black, 
Wide,    glittering    eyes    looked    else- 
where; lovers  pressed 


Each  before  either,  neither  glancing 
back ; 
And  peasant  maidens  smoothly  'tired 
and  tressed 
Forgot   to   finger   on   their    throats 
the  slack 
Great  pearl-strings;   while   old  blind 
men  would  not  rest. 
But  pattered  with  their  staves,  and 
slid  their  shoes 
Along  the  stones,   and  smiled  as  if 
they  saw. 
O  Heaven,  I  think  that  day  had  no- 
ble use 
Among   God's   days  !     So  near  stood 
Right  and  Law, 
Both      mutually      forborne !      Law 
would  not  bruise, 
Nor  Right  deny;  and  each  in  reverent 
awe 
Honored  the  other.    And  if,  ne'er- 
theless. 
That  good  day's  sun  delivered  to  the 
vines 
No  charta,  and  the  liberal  Duke's 
excess 
Did  scarce  exceed  a  Guelf's  or  Ghibel- 
line's 
In    any    sjiecial    actual  righteous- 
ness 
Of  what  that  day  he  granted,  still  the 
signs 
Are   good   and  full  of   promise,  we 
must  say. 
When  nuiltitudes  approach  their  kings 
with  prayers. 
And   kings   concede   their   people's 
right  to  pray. 
Both  in  one  sunshine.     Griefs  are  not 
despairs, 
So  uttered;  nor  can  royal  claims  dis- 
may 
When  men  from  humble  homes  and 
ducal  chairs, 
Hate  wrong  together.     It  was  well 
to  view 
Those  banners  ruffled  in  a  ruler's  face 
Inscribed,  "  Live,  freedom,  union, 
and  all  true 
Brave  patriots  who  are  aided  by  God's 
grace  !  " 
Nor  was  it  ill  when  Leopoldo  drew 
His  little   children    to    the  window- 
place 
He  stood  in  at  the  Pitti,  to  suggest 
Tliey,  too,  should  govern  as  the  i^eople 
willed. 
What  a  cry  rose  then  !     Some,  who 
saw  the  best, 


C^^.-i    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


439 


i 


Declared  his  eyes  filled  up  and  over- 
filled 
"With    good,    warm    luiman    tears, 
which  unrepressed 
Ran  down.     I  like  his  face:  the  fore- 
head's build 
Has  no  capacious  genius,  yet  per- 
haps 
Sufficient  comprehension;    mild  and 
sad. 
And  careful   nobly,  not  with  care 
that  wrajis 
Self-loving  hearts,  to  stifle  and  make 
mad. 
But  careful  with  the  care  that  shuns 
a  lapse 
Of    faith   and   dutv;   studious   not   to 
add 
A    burden    in    the    gathering  of  a 
gain. 
And  so,  God  save  the  Duke,  I   say 
with  those 
Who  that  day  shouted  it;  and,  while 
dukes  reign, 
May  all  wear  in  the  visible  overflows 
Of    sjiirit  such    a    look    of    careful 
pain  ! 
For  God  must  love  it  better  than  re- 
pose. 

And  all  the  people  who  went  uji  to 
let 
Their  hearts   out  to  that  Duke,  as 
has  been  told  — 
Where  guess  ye  that  the  living  people 
met. 
Kept    tryst,    formed    ranks,    chose 
leaders,  first  unrolled 
Their  banners  ? 

In  the  Loggia  ?  where  is  set 
Cellini's  godlike  Perseus,  bronze  or 
gold, 
(How    name    the    metal,    when    the 
sta'tue  flings 
Its  soul  so  in  your  eyes  ?)  with  brow 
and  sword 
Superbly  calm,  as  all  ojiposiug  things. 
Slain  with    tlje    Gorgon,   were    no 
more  abhorred 
Since  ended  ? 

No,  the  people  sought  no  wings 
From   Perseus   in   the   Loggia,    nor 
implored 
An  inspiration  in  the  place  beside 
From    that    dim    bust    of    Brutus, 
jagged  and  grand. 
Where  Buonarroti  passionately  tried 
From  out  the  close-clenched  marble 
to  demand 


The  head  of  Rome's  siiblimest  homi- 
cide, 
Then  dropt  the    quivering    mallet 
from  his  hand. 
Despairing  he  could   find  no  model- 
stufl: 
Of  Brutus  in  all  Florence  where  he 
found 
The  gods  and  gladiators  thick  enough. 
Nor   there  !    the   people    chose   still 
holier  ground: 
The  people,  who  are  simple,   blind, 
and  rough, 
Know  their  own  angels,  after  look- 
ing round. 
Whom  chose  they  then  ?   where  met 
they? 

On  the  stone 
Called  Dante's,  —  a  plain  flat  stone 
scarce  discerned 
From    others    in    the     pavement,  — 
whereupon 
He  used  to  bring  his  quiet  chair  out, 
turned 
To   Brunelleschi's  church,  and  pour 
alone 
The    lava    of    his    spirit    when    it 
burned: 
It  is    not    cold  to-day.      O  passion- 
ate 
Poor  Dante,  who,  a  banished  Floren- 
tine, 
Didst  sit  austere  at  banquets  of  the 
great. 
And  muse  upon  this  far-off  stone  of 
thine. 
And  think  how  oft  some  passer  used 
to  wait 
A  moment,  in  the  golden  day's  de- 
cline, 
With   "  Good-night,  dearest  Dante  !  " 
—  well,  good-night! 
/  muse  now,  Dante,  ami  think  veri- 
l.v. 
Though  chapelled  in  the  by-way,  out 
of  sight, 
Ravenna's  bones  would  thrill  with 
ecstasy, 
Couldst    know    thy  favorite    stone's 
elected  right 
As  tryst-place  for  thy  Tuscans  to 
foresee 
Their    earliest    chartas   from.     Good- 
night, good-morn. 
Henceforward,  Dante!  now  my  soul 
is  sure 
That   thine   is    better   comforted    of 
scorn, 


440 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


And  looks  down  earthward  in  com- 
pleter cure 
Than  when,  in  Santa  Croce  Church 
forlorn 
Of    any  corpse,  the    architect  and 
hewer 
Did  pile  the  empty  marbles  as  thy 
tomb.i 
For  now  thon  art  no  longer  exiled, 
now 
Best  honored:  we  salute  thee  who  art 
come 
Back  to  the  old  stone  V\'ith  a  softer 
brow 
Than  Giotto  drew  upon  the  wall,  for 
some 
Good  lovers  of  our  age  to  track  and 
plough  - 
Their  way  to,  through  time's  ordures 
stratified, 
And  startle  broad  awake  into  the 
dull 
Bargello  chamber:  now  thou'rt  mild- 
er-eyed, — 
Now  Beatrix  may  leap  up  glad  to 
cull 
Thy  first  smile,  even  in  heaven  and  at 
her  side, 
Like    that  which,   nine   years  old, 
looked  beautiful 
At  Maj'-game.     What  do  I  say  ?    I 
only  meant 
That  tender  Dante  loved  his  Flor- 
ence well. 
While  Florence,  now,  to  love  him  is 
content; 
And  mark  ye,  that  the  pierciugest 
sweet  smell 
Of  love's  dear  incense  by  the  living 
sent 
To    find    the   dead  is  not  accessi- 
ble 
To  lazy  livers,  no  narcotic,  not 

Swung  in  a  censer  to  a  sleepy  tune. 
But  trod  out  in  the  morning  air  by 
hot. 
Quick  spirits  who  tread  firm  to  ends 
foreshown. 
And  use  the  name  of  greatness  un- 
forgot, 
To  meditate  what  greatness  may  be 
done. 

'  The  Florentines,  to  whom  the  Raven- 
iiese  refused  the  body  of  Dante  (demanded 
of  them  "  in  a  late  remorse  of  love  "),  have 
given  a  cenotaph  in  this  church  to  their  di- 
vine poet.     Sometliing  less  than  a  grave ! 

2  In  allusion  to  Mr.  Kirkup's  discovery  of 
Giotto's  fresco  portrait  of  Dante. 


For  Dante  sits  in  heaven,  and  ye  stand 

here, 
And    more  remains  for  doing,   all 

must  feel. 
Than  trj'sting  on  his  stone  from  year 

to  year 
To  shift  processions,  civic  toe    to 

heel, 
The  town's  thanks  to  the  Pitti.    Are 

ye  freer 
For  what  was  felt  that  day  ?  A  char- 
iot-wheel 
May  spin  fast,  yet  the  chariot  never 

roll ; 
But  if  that  day  suggested  something 

good. 
And  bettered,  with  one  purpose,  soul 

by  soul  — 
Better    means     freer.      A     land's 

brotherhood 
Is    most    puissant:    men,    upon    the 

whole. 
Are  what  they  can  be;  nations,  what 

they  would. 


to 


be    strong,   thou 
Austrian  Metter- 


unless    the  neck 

the  lion's  when 

it,  and  no  man 


Will,   therefore 
Italy  ! 
Will  to  be  noble  ? 
nich 
Can    fix    no    yoke, 
agree ; 
And  thine  is  like 
the  thick 
Dews  shudder  from 
would  be 
The  stroker  of  his  mane,  much  less 
would  prick 
His  nostril  with  a  reed.     When    na- 
tions roar 
Like  lions,  who  shall  tame  them, 
and  defraud 
Of  the  due  jiasture  by  the  river-shore  ? 
Roar,  therefore  I    shake  your  dew- 
laps dry  abroad: 
The  amphitheatre  with  open  door 
Leads  back  upon  the  benches  who 
applaud 
The  last  spear-thruster. 

Yet  the  heavens  forbid 
That  we  should  call  on  passion  to 
confront 
The  brutal  with  the  brutal,  and,  amid 
Tliis  ripening  world,  suggest  a  lion- 
hunt 
And  lion's  vengeance  for  the  wrongs 
men  did 
And  do  now,  though  the  spears  are 
getting  blunt. 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


441 


We  only  call,  because  the  sight  and 
proof 
Of  lion-strength  hurts  nothing;  and 
to  show 
A  lion-heart,  and  measure  paw  with 
hoof. 
Helps  something,  even,  and  will  in- 
struct a  foe, 
As   well   as    the    onslaught,   how  to 
stand  aloof: 
Or  else  the  world  gets  past  tlie  mere 
brute  blow. 
Or  given  or  taken.     Children  use  the 
fist 
Until  they  are  of   age  to  use  the 
brain; 
And  so  we  needed  Cajsars  to  assist 
Man's    justice,    and    Napoleons   to 
exjilain 
God's    counsel,    when  a    point    was 
nearly  missed. 
Until  our   generations    should    at- 
tain 
Christ's  stature  nearer.     Not  that  we, 
alas ! 
Attain  already;  biit  a  single  inch 
"Will  raise  to  look  down  on  the  swords- 
man's pass, 
As  knightly  Roland  on  the  coward's 
flinch : 
And,    after    chloroform    and    ether- 
gas, 
"We  find  out  slowly  what  the   bee 
and  finch 
Have  read}^  found,  through  Nature's 
lamp  in  each,  — 
How  to  our  races  we  may  justify 
Our    individual    claims,   and,   as  we 

reach 
Our  own  grapes,  bend  the  tojj  vines 

to  supply 
The  children's  uses,  —  how  to   fill  a 
breach 
"With      olive-branches,  —  how      to 
quench  a  lie 
With  truth,  and  smite  a  foe  upon  the 
cheek 
With  Christ's  most  conquering  kiss. 
Why,  these  are  things 
Worth   a  great   nation's    finding,   to 
jjrove  weak 
The   "glorious   arms"   of  military 
kings. 
And  so,  with  wide  embrace,  my  Eng- 
land, seek 
To  stifle  the  bad  heat  and  flicker- 
ings 
Of  this  world's  false  and  nearly  ex- 
pended fire. 


Draw    palpitating    arrows    to    the 
wood. 
And  twang  abroad   thy   high   hopes 
and  thy  higher 
Resolves  from   that   most   virtuous 
altitude. 
Till   nations  shall   unconsciously  as- 
pire 
By  looking  up  to  thee,  and  learn 
that  good 
And  glory   are    not    different.      An- 
nounce law 
By    freedom;    exalt     chivalry     by 
peace ; 
Instruct    how  clear,  calm  eyes    can 
overawe, 
And    how    pure    hands,    stretched 
simply  to  release 
A  bond-slave,  Avill  not  need  a  sword 
to  draw 
To  be  held  dreadful.     O  my  Eng- 
land, crease 
Thy  purple  with  no  alien  agonies. 
No  struggles  toward  encroachment, 
no  vile  war ! 
Disband    thy    captains,    change    thy 
victories; 
Be   henceforth    prosperous,   as  the 
angels  are. 
Helping,  not  humbling. 

Drums  and  battle-cries 
Go  out  in  music  of  the  morning-star; 
And  soon  we  shall  have  thinkers  in 
the  place 
Of  fighters,   each  found  able  as  a 
man 
To  strike  electric  influence  through  a 
race. 
Unstayed  by  city-wall   and  barbi- 
can. 
The   jioet  shall   look  grander  in  the 
face 
Than    even    of    old    (when    he    of 
Greece  began 
To  sing  ' '  that  Achillean  wrath  which 
slew 
So  many  heroes"),  seeing  he  shall 
treat 
The  deeds  of  souls  heroic  toward  the 
true. 
The  oracles  of  life,  previsions  sweet 
And  awful,  like  divine  swans  gliding 
through 
White   arms  of  Ledas,  which  will 
leave  the  heat 
Of  their  escajjing  godship  to  endue 
The    human    medium  with   a  hea- 
venly flush. 


I 


442 


CAS  A    GUIDI   WINDOWS. 


Meanwhile,  in  tliis  same  Italy  we  want 
Not  popular  passion,  to   arise   and 
crush, 
But  popular  conscience,  which  may 
covenant 
For  what  it  knows.     Concede  with- 
out a  blush, 
To  grant  the  "  civic  guard  "  is  not  to 
grant 
The  civic  spirit,  living  and  awake: 
Those  lappets  on  your  shoulders,  citi- 
zens, 
Your  eyes  strain  after  sideways  till 
they  ache, 
(While     still,    in     admirations     and 
amens, 
The  crowd  comes  up  on  festa-days 
to  take 
The  great  sight  in),  are  not  intelli- 
gence, 
Not  courage  even:  alas  !  if  not  the 
sign 
Of    something  A^ery  noble,   they  are 
nought ; 
For  every  day  ye  dress  your  sallow 
kine 
"With    fringes    down    their    cheeks, 
though  unbesought 
They   loll    their  heavy  heads,  and 
drag  the  wine, 
And  bear  the  wooden  yoke  as  they 
were  taught 
The   first  day.    "What  ye  want    is 
light;  indeed 
Not  sunlight  (ye  may  well  look  up 
surprised 
To    those    unfathomable     heavens 
that  feed 
Your  purjile   hills),  but  God's   light 
organized 
In  some  high  soul  crowned  capable 
to  lead 
The  conscious  people,  conscious  and 
advised ; 
For,  if  we  lift  a  people  like  mere 
clay. 
It  falls  the  same.     We  want  thee,  O 
unfound 
And  sovran  teacher  !    if  thy  beard 
be  gray 
Or  black,  we   bid  thee  rise  uj)  from 
the  ground, 
And  speak  the   word  God    giveth 
thee  to  say. 
Inspiring  into  all  this  people  round. 
Instead  of  passion,  thought,  which 
pioneers 
All  generous  passion,   purifies  from 
sin. 


And  strikes  the  hour  for.    Rise  up, 
teacher  !  here's 
A  crowd  to  make  a  nation  !  best  be- 
gin 
By  making  each  a  man,  till  all  be 
peers 
Of    earth's    true    patriots    and    pure 
martyrs  in 
Knowing  and  daring.    Best  imbar 
the  doors 
Which   Peter'.s   heirs   kept  locked  so 
overdose 
They  only  let  the  mice  across   the 
floors, 
While  every  churchman   dangles,  as 
he  goes. 
The  great  key  at  his  girdle,  and  ab- 
hors 
In  Christ's  name  meekly.    Open  witle 
the  house, 
Concede  the  entrance  with  Christ's 
liberal  mind. 
And  set  the  tables  with  his  wine  and 
bread. 
What  !  "  Commune  in  both  kinds  ?  " 
In  every  kind  — 
Wine,   wafer,    love,   hope,  truth,  un- 
limited. 
Nothing  ke]"it  back.     For,  when   a 
man  is  blind 
To  starlight,  will   he  see  the  rose  is 
red? 
A  bondsman  shivering  at  a  Jesuit's 
foot  — 
"  Vpe  !   mea  culpa!"  —  is  not  like  to 
stand 
A  freedman  at  a  despot's,  and  dis- 
pute 
His    titles    l)y    the    balance    in    his 
hand, 
Weighing  them  "  suo  jure."     Tend 
the  root. 
If  careful  of  the   branches,  and   ex- 
pand 
The  inner  souls  of  men  before  you 
strive 
For  civic  heroes. 

But  the  teacher,  where  ? 
From  all   these  crowded  faces,  all 
alive. 
Eyes,  of  their  own  lids  flashing  them- 
selves bare, 
And  brows  that  with  a  mobile  life 
contrive 
A  deeper  shadow,  —  may  we  in   no 
wise  dare 
To  put  a  finger  out,  and  touch  a 
man, 


a  AS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


443 


And    cry,    "This    is    the    leader"? 
Wiiat,  all  these  ! 
Broad  heads,  black  eyes,  yet  not  a 
soul  that  ran 
From  God  down  with  a  message  ?  all, 
to  please 
The  donna  waving  measures  with 
her  fan, 
And  not  the  judgment-angel   on  his 
knees, 
(The  trumpet  just  an  inch  off  from 
his  lips,) 
Who,  when  he  breathes  next,  will  put 
out  the  sun  ? 

Yet  mankind's  self  were  foundered 
in  eclipse. 
If  lacking  doers,  with  great  works  to 
be  done; 
And  lo,  the  startled  earth  already 
dips 
Back  into  light;  a  better  day's  begian; 
And  soon  this  leader,  teacher,  will 
stand  plain, 
And  build  the  golden  pipes  and  syn- 
thesize 
This  people-organ  for  a  holy  strain. 
We  hold  this  hope,  and  still  in  all 
these  eyes 
Go  sounding  for  the  deep  look  which 
shall  drain 
Buffused  thought  into  channelled  en- 
terprise. 
Where  is  the  teacher  ?    What  now 
may  he  do 
Who  shall  do  greatly  ?    Doth  he  gird 
his  waist 
With  a  monk's  roi)e,  like  Luther  ? 
or  pursue 
The  goat,  like  Tell  ?  or  dry  his  nets 
in  haste, 
Liike  Masaniellu  when  the  sky  was 
blue  ? 
Keep  house,  like  other  peasants,  with 
inlaced 
Bare  brawny  arms  about  a  favorite 
child, 
And    meditative    looks    beyond    the 
door, 
(But  not  to  mark  the  kidling's  teeth 
have  filed 
The  green  shoots  of  his  vine  which 
last  year  bore 
Full  twenty  bunches),  or  on  triple- 
piled 
Throne-velvets  sit  at  ease  to  bless  the 
poor. 
Like  other  pontiffs,  iu  the  Poorest's 
name  ? 


The  old  tiara  keeps  itself  aslope 
Upon  his  steady  brows,  which,  all 

the  same, 
Bend   mildly  to  permit   the  people's 

hope  ? 

Whatever  hand  shall  grasp  this  ori- 
flamme 
Whatever  man  (last  peasant  or  first 
pope 
Seeking  to  free   his  country)  shall 
appear, 
Teach,     lead,    strike    fire    into    the 
masses,  fill 
These  empty  bladders  with  fine  air, 
insphere 
These  wills  into  a  unity  of  will, 

And  make  of  Italy  a  nation  —  dear 
And  blessed  be  that  man  !  the  heav- 
ens shall  kill 
No  leaf  the  earth  lets  grow  for  him, 
and  Death 
Shall  cast  him  back  upon  the  lap  of 
Life 
To  live  more  surely  in  a  clarion- 
breath 
Of     hero-music.      Brutus    with     the 
knife, 
Rienzi  with   the  fasces,  throb   be- 
neath 
Rome's  stones,  —  and  more  who  threw 
away  joy's  fife 
Like    Pallas,    that    the    beauty    of 
their  souls 
Might  ever  shine  untroubled  and  en- 
tire : 
But  if  it  can  be  true  that  he  who 
rolls 
The  Church's  thunders  will  reserve 
her  fire 
For    only    light,    from    eucharistic 
bowls 
Will   pour  new  life  for  nations   that 
expire. 
And  rend  the  scarlet  of  his  papal 
vest 
To  gird  the  weak  loins  of  his  coun- 
trymen,— 
I  hold  that  he  sui'passes  all  the  rest 
Of    Romans,    heroes,    patriots;    and 
that  when 
He  sat  down  on  the  throne,  he  dis- 
possest 
The  first  graves  of  some  glory.    See 
again. 
This  country-saving  is    a   glorious 
thing ! 
And  if  a  common  man  achieved  it  ? 
WelL 


CAS  A   GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


Say,  a  rich  man  did  ?   Excellent.     A 
king  ? 
That  grows  sublime  ?    A  priest  ?    Im- 
probable. 
A  pope  ?     Ah,  there  we  stop,  and 
cannot  bring 
Our  faith  up  to  the  leap,  with  history's 
bell 
So  heavy  round  the  neck  of  it,  al- 
beit 
"We  fain  would  grant  the  possibility 
For  thy  sake,  Pio  Nono  ! 

Stretch  thy  feet 
In  that  case  :  I  will  kiss  them  rever- 
ently 
As  any  pilgrim  to  the  papal  seat: 
And,  such  proved  possible,  thy  throne 
to  me 
Shall  seem  as  holy  a  place  as  Pel- 
lico's 
Venetian  dungeon,  or  as  Spielberg's 
grate. 
At  which  the  Lombard  woman  hung 
the  rose, 
Of  her  sweet  soul  by  its  own  dewy 
weight. 
To  feel  the  dungeon  round  her  sun- 
shine close. 
And,  pining  so,  died  early,  yet  too  late 
For  what  she  suffered.    Yea,  I  will 
not  choose 
Betwixt  thy  throne,  Pope  Pius,  and 
the  spot 
Marked  red  forever,  spite  of  rains 
and  dews. 
Where  two  fell  riddled  by  the  Aus- 
trian's shot,  — 
The    brothers    Bandiera,    who    ac- 
cuse, 
With  one  same  mother-voice  and  face 
(that  what 
They  speak  may  be  invincible)  the 
sins 
Of  earth's  tormentors  before  God  the 
just, 
Until  the  unconscious  thunder-bolt 
begins 
To  loosen  in  his  grasp. 

And  yet  we  must 
Beware,  and  mark  the  natural  kiths 
and  kins. 
Of  circumstance  and  office,  and  dis- 
trust 
The  rich  man  reasoning  in  a  poor 
man's  hut. 
The  poet  who  neglects  pure  truth  to 
prove 


Statistic  fact,  the  child  who  leaves 
a  rut 
For  a  smoother  road,  the  priest  who 
vows  his  glove 
Exhales  no  grace,  the  prince  who 
walks  afoot, 
The  woman  who  has  sworn  she  will 
not  love, 
And  this  Ninth   Pius    in    Seventh 
Gregory's  chair. 
With  Andrea  Doria's  forehead.    ' 

Count  what  goes 
To   making  up  a  pope,  before  he 
wear 
That     triple    crown.      We    pass    the 
world-wide  throes 
Which  went  to  make  the  popedom, 
—  the  despair 
Of  free  men,  good  men,  wise  men; 
the  dread  shows 
Of  women's   faces,   by  the    fagot's 
flash 
Tossed  out,  to  the  minutest  stir  and 
throb 
O'  the  white  lips;  the  least  tremble 
of  a  lash, 
To  glut  the  red  stare  of  a  licensed 
mob; 
The  short  mad  cries  down  oubliettes, 
and  plash 
So  horribly  far  off;  priests  trained  to 
rob, 
And  kings,    that,   like  encouraged 
nightmares,  sate 
On  nations'  hearts  most  heavily  dis- 
tressed 
With    monstrous    sights    and    apo- 
thegms of  fate  — 
We  pass  these  things,  because  "  the 
times"  are  prest 
With    necessary    charges    of     the 
weight 
Of  all  this  sin,  and  "  Calvin,  for  the 
rest, 
Made  bold  to  burn  Servetus.     Ah, 
men  err  !  "  — 
And  so  do  churches  !  which  is  all  we 
mean 
To  bring  to  proof  in  any  register 
Of  theological  fat  kine  and  lean: 
So  drive  them  back  into  the  pens  1 
refer 
Old  sins  (with  pourpoint,   "quotha" 
and  "  I  ween") 
Entirely  to  the  old  times,  the  old 
times; 
Nor  ever    ask    why  this  preponder- 
ant 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


445 


Infallible  pure  Church  could  set  her 
chimes 
Most  loudly  then,  just  then, — most 
jubilant. 
Precisely  then,  when  mankind  stood 
in  crimes 
Full  heart-deep,  and  Heaven's  judg- 
ments were  not  scant. 
Inquire   still   less  what  signifies  a 
church 
Of  perfect  inspiration  and  pure  laws 
Who  liurns  the  first   man  with  a 
brimstone-torch , 
And  grinds  the  second,  bone  by  bone, 
because 
The    times,  forsooth,  are    used   to 
rack  and  scorch ! 
What  is  a  holy  Church  unless    she 
awes 
The  times  down  from  their  sins  ? 
Did  Christ  select 
Such    amiable    times    to    come    and 
teach 
Love  to,  and  mercy  ?     The  whole 
world  were  wrecked 
If  every  mere  great  man,  who  lives  to 
reach 
A  little  leaf  of  popular  respect, 
Attained  not  simj^ly  by  some  special 
breach 
In  the  age's  customs,  by  some  pre- 
cedence 
In   thought  and  act,   which,   having 
proved  him  higher 
Than  those  he  lived  with,  proved 
his  competence 
In  helping  them   to  wonder  and  as- 
pire. 

My  words  are  guiltless  of  the  bigot's 
sense. 
My  soul  has  fire  to  mingle  viith  the 
fire 
Of  all  these  souls,  within  or  out  of 
doors 
Of  Rome's  church  or  another.    I  be- 
lieve 
In  one  Priest,  and  one  temple,  with 
its  floors 
Of  shining  jasper  gloomed  at  morn 
and  eve 
By  countless  knees  of  earnest  au- 
ditors, 
And  crystal  walls  too  lucid  to  per- 
ceive. 
That  none  may  take  the  measure  of 
the  place 
And  say,  "  So  far  the  porphyry,  then 
the  flint ; 


To  this  mark  mercy  goes,  and  there 
ends  grace," 
Though   still  the  permeable  crystals 
hint 
At    some    white    starry    distance, 
bathed  in  space. 
I  feel  how  Nature's  ice-crusts    keep 
the  dint 
Of  undersprings  of  silent  Deity. 
I  hold  the  articulated  gospels  which 
Show  Christ  among  us  crucified  on 
tree. 
I  love  all  who  love  truth,  if  poor  or 

rich 
In  what  they  have  won  of  truth  pos- 
sessively. 
No  altars,  and  no  hands  defiled  with 
pitch, 
Shall  scare  me  off;  l)ut  I  will  pray 
and  eat 
With  all  these,  taking  leave  to  choose 
my  ewers. 
And    say    at    last,    "Your    visible 
churches  cheat 
Their  inward  types;  and,  if  a  church 

assures 
Of  standing  without  failure  and  de- 
feat. 
The  same  both  fails  and  lies." 


To  leave  which  lures 
Of  wider  subject  through  past  years, 
—  behold. 
We  come  back  from  the  popedom  to 
the  pope, 
To  ponder  what  he  must  be,  ere  we 
are  bold 
For  what  he  may  be,  with  our  heavy 
hope 
To  trust  upon  his  soul.    So,  fold  by 
fold. 
Explore  this  mummy  in  the  jjriestly 
cope, 
Transmitted  through  the  darks  of 
time,  to  catch 
The  man  within  the  wrappage,  and 
discern 
How  he,  an  honest  man,  upon  the 
watch 
Full  fifty  years  for  what  a  man  may 
learn. 
Contrived  to  get  just  there;   with 
what  a  snatch 
Of  old-world  oboli  he  had  to  earn 
The  passage  through;  with  what  a 
drowsy  sop. 
To  drench  the  busy  barkings  of  his 
brain; 


r 

{    UNI 


UNIVERSd 

Of  / 


446 


CAS  A    GUIDT    WINDOWS. 


What    ghosts    of     pale     tradition, 
■wreathed  with  hop 
'Gainst  wakeful  thought,  he  had  to 
entertain 
For  heavenly  visions;  and  consent 
to  stop 
Tlie  clock  at  noon,  and  let  the  hour 
remain 
(Without  vain   windings-up)  invio- 
late 
Against  all  chimings  from  the  belfry. 
Lo, 
From  every  given   pope  you  must 
abate, 
Albeit  you  love  him,  some  things  — 
good,  you  know  — 
Which    every    given    heretic    you 
hate, 
Assumes  for  his,  as  being  plainly  so. 
A  pope  must  hold  by  popes  a  little, 
—  yes, 
By     councils,     from     Nicaea     up     to 
Trent,  — 
Bj-  hierocratic  empire,  more  or  less 
Irresponsible  to  men,  —  he  must  re- 
sent 
Each  man's  particular  conscience, 
and  repress 
Inquiry,  meditation,  argument. 
As  tyrants  faction.    Also,  he  must 
not 
Love  truth  too  dangerously,  but  pre- 
fer 
"  The  interests  of  the  Church  "  (be- 
cause a  blot 
Is  better  than  a  rent,  in  miniver;) 
Submit  to  see  the  people  swallow 
hot 
Husk-porridge,   which  his  chartered 
churchmen  stir 
Quoting  the  only  true   God's  epi- 
graph, 
"Feed    my    lambs,     Peter!"     must 
consent  to  sit 
Attesting  with  his  pastoral  ring  and 
staff 
To  such  a  picture  of  our  Lady,  hit 
Off    well    by   artist-angels  (though 
not  half 
As  fair  as  Giotto  would  have  painted 
it;) 
To  such  a  vial,  where  a  dead  man's 
blood 
Huns  yearly  warm  beneath  a  church- 
man's finger; 
To  sucli  a  holy  house  of  stone  and 
wood. 
Whereof  a  cloud   of  angels  was  the 
bringer 


From  Bethlehem  to  Loreto.     Were 
it  good 
For  any  pope  on  earth  to  he  a  tiinger 
Of  stones  against  these  high-niched 
counterfeits  ? 
Apostates  only  are  iconoclasts. 
He  dares  not  say,  while  this  false 
thing  abets 
That  true  thing,  "This  is  false."     He 
keeps  his  fasts 
And  prayers,  as    prayer  and    fast 
were  silver  frets 
To  change  a  note  upon  a  string  that 
lasts, 
And  juake  a  lie  a  virtue.     Now,  if 
he 
Did  more  than  this,  higher  hoped,  and 
braver  dared, 
I  think  he  were  a  pope  in  jeopardy, 
Or  no  pope  rather,  for  his  truth  had 
barred 
The  vaulting  of  his  life;  and  cer- 
tainly, 
If  he  do  only  this,  mankind's  regard 
Moves  on  from  him  at  once  to  seek 
some  new 
Teacher  and  leader.     He  is  good  and 
great 
According  to  the  deeds  a  pope  can 
do; 
Most  liberal,  save  those  bonds;  affec- 
tionate. 
As  princes  may  be,  and,  as  priests 
are,  true. 
But  only  the  ninth  Pius  after  eight, 
W^hen  all's  jiraised  most.    At  best 
and  hopefullest. 
He's  pope:    we  want    a    man !     His 
heart  beats  warm ; 
But,  like  the  prince  enchanted  to 
the  waist, 
He  sits  in  stone,  and  hardens  by  a 
charm 
Into  the  marble  of  his  throne  high- 
placed. 
Mild    benediction  waves  bis  saintly 
arm  — 
So,  good  !    But  what  we  want's  a 
perfect  man. 
Complete  and  all  alive:   half  traver- 
tine 
Half   suits  our  need,   and  ill  sub- 
serves our  plan. 
Feet,  knees,  nerves,  sinews,  energies 
divine, 
Were  never  yet  too  much  for  men 
who  ran 
In  such  hard  ways  as  must  be  this  of 
thine, 


^ 


CAS  A    GUTDI    WINDOWS. 


447 


Deliverer  whom   we  seek,  whoe'er 
thou  art, 
Pope,  prince,  or  peasant  !     If,  indeed, 
the  first, 
The  noblest,   therefore  !    since  the 
heroic  heart 
Within  thee  must  be  great  enough  to 
burst 
Those    trammels    buckling    to    the 
baser  part 
Thy    saintly    peers    in    Rome,    who 

crossed  and  curst 
With  the  same  finger. 

Come,  appear,  be  found. 
If  pope  or  peasant,  come  !  we  hear  the 
cock. 
The  courtier  of  the  mountains  when 
first  crowned 
With  golden  dawn ;  and  orient  glories 
flock 
To  meet  the  sun  upon  the   highest 
ground. 
Take  voice,  and   work  !   we   wait  to 
hear  thee  knock 
At  some  one  of  our  Florentine  nine 
gates, 
On  each  of  which  was  imaged  a  sub- 
lime 
Face  of  a  Tuscan  genius,  which,  for 
hate's 
And  love's  sake  both,  our   Florence 
in  her  prime 
Turned  boldly  on  all  comers  to  her 
states. 
As  heroes  turned  their  shields  in  an- 
tique time 
Emblazoned  with    lionorable  acts. 
And  though 
The    gates    are    blank  now  of    such 
images, 
And  Petrarch  looks  no  more  from 
Nicolo 
Toward  dear  Arezzo,  'twixt  the  aca- 
cia-trees, 
Nor  Dante,  from  gate  Gallo  —  still 
we  know. 
Despite  the  razing  of  the  blazonries, 
Remains    the    consecration    of    the 
shield: 
The  dead  heroic  faces  will  start  out 
On  all  these  gates,  if  foes  should 
take  the  field. 
And  blend  sublimely,  at  the  earliest 
shout. 
With  living  heroes  who  will  scorn 
to  yield 
A  hair's-breadth  even,  when,  gazing 
round  about, 


They  find  in  what  a  glorious  com- 
pany 
They  fight  the  foes  of  Florence.    Who 
will  grudge 
His  one  poor  life,  when  that  great 
man  we  see 
Has    given  five  hundred   years,   the 
world  being  judge 
To  help  the  glory  of  his  Italy  ? 
Who,  born  the  fair  side  of  the  Alps, 
will  budge. 
When   Dante  stays,  when  Ariosto 
stays. 
When    Petrarch    stays   forever  ?    Ye 
bring  swoi'ds. 
My    Tuscans  ?    Ay,   if    wanted    in 
this  haze. 
Bring  swords,  but  first  bring  souls,  — 
bring  thoughts  and  words, 
Unrusted  by  a  tear  of  yesterday's, 
Yet  awful  by  its   wrong,  —  and   cut 
these  cords. 
And  mow  this  green,  lush  falseness 
to  the  roots, 
And  shut  the  mouth  of  hell  below 
the  swathe  ! 
And,  if  ye  can  bring  songs  too,  let 
the  lute's 
Recoverable  music  softly  bathe 
Some  poet's  hand,  that,  through  all 
bursts  and  bruits 
Of    popular  passion,   all  unripe  and 
rathe 
Convictions  of  the  popular  intellect, 
Ye  may  not  lack  a  finger  up  the  air, 
Annunciative,      reproving,      pure, 
erect. 
To  show  which  way  your  first  ideal 
bare 
The  whiteness  of  its  wings  when 
(sorely  pecked 
By  falcons  on  your  wrists)  it  unaware 
Arose  up  overhead  and  out  of  sight. 

Meanwhile,  let  all  the  far  ends  of  the 
world 
Breathe  back  the  deep  breath    of 
their  old  delight. 
To  swell  the  Itahan  banner  just  un- 
furled. 
Help,  lands  of  Europe  !  for,  if  Aus- 
tria fight. 
The  drums  will    bar  your  slumber. 
Had  ye  curled 
The  laurel  for  your  thousand  artists' 
brows. 
If  these  Italian  hands  had  planted 
none? 
Can  any  sit  down  idle  in  the  house, 


448 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


Nor  hear  appeals  from  Buonarroti's 
stone 
And  Raffael's  canvas,  rousing  and 
to  rouse  ? 
Where's    Poussin's    master  ?     Gallic 
Avignon 
Bred  Laura,  and  Vaucluse's  fount 
has  stirred 
The  heart  of  France  too  strongly,  as 
it  lets 
Its    little   stream  out  (like  a   wiz- 
ard's bird 
Which  bounds  upon  its  emerald  wing, 
and  wets 
The  rocks  on  each  side),  that  she 
should  not  gird 
Her  loins  with  Charlemagne's  sword 
when  foes  beset 
The  country  of  her  Petrarch.    Spain 
may  well 
Be     minded     how    from    Italy    she 
caught, 
To  mingle  with  her  tinkling  Moor- 
ish bell, 
A    fuller    cadence    and     a     subtler 
thought. 
And  even  the  New  World,  the  re- 
ceptacle 
Of  freemen,  may  send  glad  men,  as  it 
ought, 
To  greet  Vespucci  Amerigo's  door. 
While  England  claims,  by  trump  of 
poetry, 
Verona,  Venice,  the  Ravenna-shore, 
And    dearer    holds     John    Milton's 
Fiesole 
Than  Langlande's  Malvern  with  the 
stars  in  flower. 

And   Vallombrosa,  we  two  went  to 
see 
Last    June,     beloved     companion, 
where  sublime 
The    mountains    live    in    holy  fami- 
lies. 
And  the  slow  pine-woods  ever  climb 
and  climb 
Half  up  their  breasts,  just  stagger  as 
they  seize 
Some  gray  crag,  drop  back  with  it 
many  a  time, 
And  straggle  blindly  down  the  preci- 
pice. 
The    Vallombrosan     brooks    were 
strewn  as  thick 
That  June  day,  knee-deep  with  dead 
beechen  leaves, 
As  Milton  saw  them  ere  his  heart 
grew  sick. 


And    his    eyes    blind.     I    think    the 
monks  and  beeves 
Are  all  the  same  too:  scarce  have 
they  changed  the  wick 
On  good  St.  Gualbert's  altar  which 
receives 
The    convent's  pilgrims;    and    the 
pool  in  front 
(Wherein  the  hill-stream    trout    are 
cast,  to  wait 
The  beatific  vision  and  the  grunt 
Used  at  refectory)  keeps  its  weedy 
state. 
To  baffle  saintly  abbots  who  would 
count 
The  fish    across  their  breviary,   nor 
'bate 
The  measure  of  their  steps.     O  wa- 
terfalls 
And    forests  !     sound    and    silence ! 
mountains  bare. 
That  leap  up  peak    by  peak,  and 
catch  the  palls 
Of  purple  and  silver  mist  to  rend  and 
share 
With  one  another,  at  electric  calls 
Of  life  in  the  sunbeams,  —  till  we  can- 
not dare 
Fix  your  shapes,  count  your  num- 
ber !  we  must  think 
Your  beauty  and  your  glory  helped 
to  fill 
The  cup  of  Milton's  soul  so  to  the 
brink, 
He  nevermore  was  thirsty  when  God's 
will 
Had  shattered  to  his  sense  the  last 
chain-link 
By  which  he  had  drawn  from  Na- 
ture's visible 
The  fresh  well-water.     Satisfied  by 
this, 
He    sang    of    Adam's    paradise,  and 
smiled. 
Remembering  Vallombrosa.  There- 
fore is 
The  place  divine  to  English  man  and 
child, 
And  pilgrims  leave  their  souls  here 
in  a  kiss. 

For  Italy's  the  whole  earth's  treas- 
ury, piled 
With    reveries    of    gentle     ladies, 
flung 
Aside,  like  ravelled  silk,  from  life's 
worn  stuff; 
With    coins     of     scholars'     fancy, 
which,  being  rung 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


449 


On  workday  counter,  still  sound  sil- 
ver-proof: 
In  short,  with  all  the  dreams    of 
dreamers  young, 
Before  their  heads  have  time  for  slip- 
ping off 
Hope's  pillow  to  the  ground.     How 
oft,  indeed, 
We've  sent  our  souls  out  from  the 
rigid  north, 
On    bare  white  feet  which   would 
not  print  nor  bleed. 
To  climb  the  Alpine  passes,  and  look 
forth, 
"Where  booming  low  the  Lombard 
rivers  lead 
To  gardens,  vineyards,  all  a  dream  is 
worth,  — 
Sights  thou  and  I,  love,  have  seen 
afterward 
From     Tuscan    Bellosguardo,    wide 
awake,  1 
When,     standing     on     the     actual 
blessed  sward 
W^here    Galileo    stood    at    nights    to 
take 
The  vision  of  the  stars,   we  have 
fouud  it  hard, 
Gazing  upon  the  earth  and  heaven, 
to  make 
A  choice  of  beauty. 

Therefore  let  us  all 
Refreshed   in    England    or   in    other 
laud. 
By  visions,  with  their  fountain  rise 
and  fall, 
Of  this  earth's  darling,  —  we,  who  un- 
derstand 
A  little  how  the  Tuscan  musical 
Vowels    do    round    themselves  as  if 
they  planned 
Eternities  of  separate  sweetness,  — 
we. 
Who  loved  Sorrento  vines  in  picture- 
book. 
Or  ere  in  winecup  we  pledged  faith 
or  glee,  — 
Who  loved  Rome's  wolf  with  demi- 
gods at  suck, 
Or  ere  we  loved  truth's  own  divini- 
ty,— 
Who  loved,  in  brief,  the  classic  hill 
and  brook, 
And  Ovid's  dreaming  tales  and  Pe- 
trarch's song, 

1  Galileo's    villa,    close    to    Florence,    is 
built  on  an  eminence  called  Bellosguardo. 


Or  e'er  we  loved  Love's  self  even, — 
let  us  give 
The  blessing  of  our  souls  (and  wish 
them  strong 
To  bear  it  to  the  height  where  prayers 
arrive. 
When  faithful  spirits  pray  against  a 
wrong,) 
To  this  great  cause  of  southern  men 
who  strive 
In  God's  name  for  man's  rights,  and 
shall  not  fail ! 

Behold    they    shall    not    fail.      The 
shouts  ascend 
Above  the  shrieks,  in  Naples,  and 
prevail. 
Rows  of  shot  corpses,  waiting  for  the 
end 
Of  burial,  seem  to  smile  up  straight 
and  pale 
Into  the  azure  air,  and  apprehend 
That  final  gun-flash  from  Palermo's 
coast 
Which    lightens  their  apocalypse   of 
death. 
So  let  them  die  !    The  world  shows 
nothing  lost; 
Therefore  not  blood.     Above  or  un- 
derneath, 
What  matter,  brothers,  if  ye  keep 
your  post 
On  duty's  side  ?    As  sword  returns  to 
sheath. 
So  dust  to  grave;    but  souls    find 
place  in  heaven. 
Heroic  daring  is  the  true  success, 
The   eucharistic  bread  requires  no 
leaven ; 
And,  though  your  ends  were  hopeless, 
we  should  bless 
Your  cause  as  holy.     Strive  —  and, 
having  sti'iven. 
Take  for  God's  recompense  that  right- 
eousness ! 


PART  II. 


I  WROTE  a  meditation  and  a  dream. 
Hearing  a  little  child  sing  in  the 
street: 
I  leant  upon  his  music  as  a  theme. 
Till  it  gave  way  beneath  my  heart's 
full  beat 
Which  tried  at  an  exultant  prophecy. 


r 


450 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


But    dropped    before    the  measui-e 
was  complete  — 
Alas  for  songs  and  hearts  !     O  Tus- 
cany, 
O  Dante's  Florence,  is  the  type  too 
plain  ? 
Didst  thou,  too,  only  sing  of  liberty, 
As  little  children   take  up  a  high 
strain 
"With  unintentioned  voices,  and  break 
off 
To  sleep  upon  their  mothers'  knees 
again  ? 
Conldst  thou  not  watch   one    hour"? 
then  sleep  enough, 
That  sleep  may  hasten   manhood, 
and  sustain 
The  faint,  pale  spirit  with  some  mus- 
cular stuff. 


But  we  who  cannot  slumber  as  thou 
dost; 
We  thinkers,  who  have  thought  for 
thee,  and  failed; 
We    hopers,   who    have   hoped   for 
thee,  and  lost ; 
We     poets,      wandered     round     by 
dreams,!  who  hailed 
From  this  Atrides'  roof  (with  lintel- 
post 
M'hich  still  drips  blood,  —  the  worse 
part  hath  prevailed) 
The  iire-voice  of  the  beacons  to  de- 
clare 
Troy  taken,  sorrow  ended,  —  cozened 
through 
A  crimson  sunset  in  a  misty  air. 
What  now  remains  for  such  as  we  to 
do? 
God's     judgments,     peradventure, 
will  he  bare 
To  the  roots  of  thunder,  if  we  kneel 
and  sue  ? 


From  Casa  Guidi  windows  I  looked 
forth. 
And  saw  ten  thousand  eyes  of  Flor- 
entines 
Flash  back  the  triumph  of  the  Lom- 
bard north,  — 
Saw  fifty  banners,  freighted  with  the 
signs 
And  exultations  of  the  awakened 
eartli, 
Float  on  above  the  multitude  in  lines, 

'  See  the  opening  passage  of  the  Agamem- 
non of  ^schylua. 


Straight  to  the  Pitti.    So,  the  vision 
went. 
And  so,  between  those  populous  rough 
hands 
Raised  in  the  sun,  Duke  Leopold 
outleant. 
And  took  the    patriot's   oath  which 
henceforth  stands 
Among  the  oaths  of  perjurers,  emi- 
nent 
To  catch  the  lightnings  ripened  for 
these  lands. 

Why  swear  at  all,  thou  false  Duke 
Leopold  ? 
What  need  to  swear  ?    What  need  to 
boast  thy  blood 
Unspoilt  of  Austria,  and  thy  heart 
unsold 
Away  from  Florence  ?    It  was  under- 
stood 
God  made  thee  not  too  vigorous  or 
too  bold; 
And  men  had  patience  with  thy  quiet 
mood, 
And  womqn  pity,  as  they  saw  thee 
pace 
Their  festive  streets  with  premature 
gray  hairs. 
We  turned  tlie  mild  dejection  of  thy 
face 
To  princely  meanings,  took  thy  wrin- 
kling cares 
For  ruffling  hopes,  and  called  thee 
weak,  not  base. 
Nay,  better  light  the  torches  for  more 
prayers. 
And  smoke  the  pale  Madonnas  at 
the  shrine,  — 
Being    still   "  our  poor   Grand-duke, 
our  good  Grand-duke, 
Who  cannot  help  the  Austrian  in 
his  line,"  — 
Than  write  an  oath   upon  a  nation's 
book 
For    men    to  spit  at  with    scorn's 
blurring  brine ! 
Who    dares    forgive  what   none  can 
overlook  ? 

For  me,   I  do  repent    me  in    this 
dust 
Of  towns  and  temples  which   makes 
Italy; 
I  sigh  amid  the  sighs  which  breathe 
a  gust 
Of  dying  century  to  century 
Around  us  on  the  uneven  crater- 
crust 


1^  > ■ >  i^ 


CAS  A    GUWI    WINDOWS. 


451 


Of  these  old  worlds;  I  bow  my  soul 
and  knee. 
Absolve    me,   patriots,   of    my   wo- 
man's fault 
Tliat  ever  I   belieA'ed  the   man   was 
true  ! 
These  sceptred  strangers  shun  the 
common  salt, 
And    therefore,    when    the    general 
board's  in  view, 
And    they  stand    up   to  carve  for 
blind  and  halt. 
The  wise  suspect  the  viands  which 
ensue. 
I  much  repent,   that  in  this  time 
and  place. 
Where  many  corpse-lights  of  experi- 
ence burn 
From  Cjesar's  and  Lorenzo's  fester- 
ing race. 
To  enlighten    growling    reasoners,    I 
could  learn 
No  better  counsel  for  a  simple  case 
Than  to  put  faith  in  princes,  in  my 
turn. 
Had  all  the  death-piles  of  the   an- 
cient years 
Flared  up  in  vain  before  me?  knew 
I  not 
What  stench  arises  from  some  pur- 
ple gears  ? 
And  how  the  sceptres  witness  whence 
they  got 
Their  brier-wood,  crackling  through 
the  atmosphere's 
Foul    smoke,    by    princelv    perjuries 
kept  hot  ? 
Forgive  me,  ghosts  of   patriots, — 
Brutus,  thou 
Who  trailest  down  hill  into  life  again 
Thy  blood-weighed  cloak,  to  indict 
me  with  thy  slow, 
Reproachful  eyes  !  — for  being  taught 
in  vain. 
That,  while  the  illegitimate  Caesars 
show 
Of  meaner  statiire  than  the  first  full 
strain 
(Confessed  incompetent  to  conquer 
Gaul,) 
They  swoon  as  feebly,  and  cross  Ru- 
bicons 
As  rashly,  as  any  Julius  of    them 
all! 
Forgive,  that  I  forgot  the  mind  which 
runs 
Through  absolute  races,  too  unscep- 
tical ! 
I  saw  the  man  among  his  little  sons. 


His   lips   were   warm    with    kisses 
while  he  swore ; 
And  I,  because  I  am  a  woman,  I, 
Who  felt   my    own  child's   coming 
life  before 
The  prescience  of  my  soul,  and  held 
faith  high, — 
I  could  not  bear  to  think,  whoever 
bore. 
That  lips  so  warmed  could  shape  so 
cold  a  lie. 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows  I  looked 
out, 
Again  looked,  and  beheld  a  different 
sight. 
The  Duke  had  fled  before  the  peo- 
ple's shout 
"  Long  live  the  Duke  !  "   A  people,  to 
speak  right. 
Must  speak  as  soft  as  courtiers,  lest 
a  doubt 
Should  curdle  brows  of  gracious  sov- 
ereigns white. 
Moreover,    that     same     dangerous 
shouting  meant 
Some    gratitude    for    future     favors 
which 
Were  only  promised,  the  Constitu- 
ent 
Implied;  the  whole  l)eing  subject  to 
the  hitch 
In    "  motu    proprios,"     very    inci- 
dent 
To  all  these  Czars,  from  Paul  to  Paulo- 
vitch. 
Whereat  the  people  rose  up  in  the 
dust 
Of  the  ruler's  flying  feet,  and  shouted 
still 
And  loudly;  only,  this  time,  as  was 
just, 
Not  "Live  the  Duke  !  "  who  had  fled 
for  good  or  ill. 
But  "  Live  the  People  I  "  who  re- 
mained and  must. 
The  uurenounced  and  unrenouncea- 
ble. 

Long  live   the  people  !     How  they 

lived  !  and  boiled 
And  bubbled  in  the  caldron  of   the 

street  ! 
How  the  young  blustered,  nor  the 

old  recoiled  ! 
And  what  a  thunderous  stir  of  tongues 

and  feet 
Trod  flat  the  palpitating  bells,  and 

foiled 


452 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


The  joy-guns  of  their  echo,  shattering 
it ! 
How  down  they  pulled  the  Duke's 
arms  everywhere  ! 
How  up  they  set  new  cafe-signs,  to 
show 
Where  patriots  might  sip  ices   in 
pure  air ! 
(The  fresh  paint  smelling  somewhat.) 
To  and  fro 
How  marched  the  civic  guard,  and 
stopped  to  stare 
When  boys  broke  windows  in  a  civic 
glow ! 
How  rebel  songs  were  sung  to  loyal 
tunes. 
And    bishops    cursed    in   ecclesiastic 
metres  ! 
How  all  the  Circoli  grew  large  as 
moons, 
And  all  the  speakers,  moonstruck,  — 
thankful  greeters 
Of  prospects  which  struck  poor  the 
ducal  boons, 
A   mere  free  Press  and   Chambers ! 
frank  repeaters 
Of      great      Guerazzi's      praises  — 
"There's  a  man. 
The  father  of  the   land,  who,   truly 
great, 
Takes  off  that  national  disgrace  and 
ban, 
The  farthing-tax  upon  our  Florence- 
gate, 
And  saves  Italia  as  he  only  can  !  " 
How  all   the  nobles  tied,  and  would 
not  wait, 
Because    they   were    most  noble ! 
which  being  so, 
How   liberals  vowed  to    burn    their 
jialaces, 
Because  free  Tuscans  were  not  free 
to  go ! 
How  grown  men  raged  at  Austria's 
wickedness, 
And  smoked,  while  fifty  striplings 
in  a  row 
Marched  straight  to  Piedmont  for  the 
wrong's  redress  ! 
You  say  we  failed    in   duty,  —  we 
who  wore 
Black  velvet  like  Italian  democrats, 
Who  slashed  our  sleeves  like  patri- 
ots, nor  forswore 
The  trvie  repulblic  in  the  form  of  hats  ? 
We  chased  the  archbishop  from  the 
Duomo-door, 
We  chalked  the  walls  with  bloody 
caveats 


Against  all  tyrants.     If  we  did  not 
fight 
Exactly,   we   fired    muskets    up    the 
air 
To  show  that  victory  was   ours   of 
right. 
We  met,  had  free  discussion  every- 
where 
(Except,  perhaps,  i'  the  Chambers) 
day  and  night. 
We  proved  the  poor  should  be   em- 
ployed .  .  .  that's  fair,  — 
And  yet  the  ricli   not  worked   for 
anywise, — 
Pay  certified,  yet  payers  abrogated, 
Full    work     secured,    yet     liabili- 
ties 
To     overwork     excluded,  —  not    one 
bated 
Of  all  our  holidays,   that  still,   at 
twice 
Or    thrice    a   week,   are   moderately 
rated. 
We   proved  that  Austria  was  dis- 
lodged, or  would 
Or  should  be,  and  that  Tuscany  in 
arms 
Should,  would,  dislodge  her,  ending 
the  old  feud; 
And  yet  to  leave  our  piazzas,  shops, 
and  farms, 
For  the  simple  sake  of  fighting,  was 
not  good  — 
We  proved  that  also.     "  Did  we  carry 
charms 
Against  being  killed  ourselves,  that 
we  should  rush 
On  killing  others  ?  what,  desert  here- 
with 
Our  wives  and  mothers  ?  —  was  that 
duty?    Tush!" 
At  which  we  shook  the  sword  within 
the  sheath 
Like  heroes,  only  louder;  and  the 
flush 
Ran  up  the  cheek  to  meet  the  future 
wreath. 
Nay,  what  we  proved,  we  shouted 
—  how  we  shouted  ! 
(Especially    the     boys     did),    boldly 
planting 
That  tree  of  liberty,  whose  fruit  is 
doubted. 
Because  the  roots  are  not  of  Nature's 
granting. 
A  tree  of  good  and  evil:  none,  with- 
out it, 
Grow  gods;  alas  !  and,  with  it,  men 
are  wanting. 


CASA    GVIDI    WINDOWS. 


453 


O  holy  knowledge,  holy  liberty  ! 
O    holy    rights    of    nations !       If    I 
speak 
These  bitter  things  against  the  jug- 
glery 
Of  days  that  in  your  names  proved 
blind  and  weak, 
It  is   that  tears  are  bitter.     When 
we  see 
The  brown  skulls  grin  at  death  in 
churchyards  bleak, 
We  do  not  cry,  "  This  Yorick  is  too 
light," 
For  death  grows  deathlier  with  that 
mouth  he  makes. 
So  with  my  mocking.    Bitter  things 
I  write 
Because  my  soul  is  bitter  for  your 
sakes, 
O  freedom  I  0  my  Florence  ! 

Men  who  might 
Do  greatly  in  a  universe  that  breaks 
And  burns,  must  ever  knoio  before 
they  do. 
Courage  and  patience  are  but  sacri- 
fice; 
And  sacrifice  is  offered  for  and  to 
Something  conceived  of.     Each  man 
jiays  a  price 
For  what  himself  counts  precious, 
whether  true 
Or  false  the  appreciation  it  implies. 
But  here,  —  no  knowledge,  no  con- 
ception, nought ! 
Desire    was    absent,    that    provides 
great  deeds 
From  out  the  greatness  of  preven- 
ient  thought; 
And  action,  action,  like  a  flame  that 
needs 
A   steady  breath    and  fuel,   being 
caught 
Up,  like  a  burning  reed  from   other 
reeds. 
Flashed  in  the   empty  and  uncer- 
tain air, 
Then  wavered,  then   went  out.     Be- 
hold, who  blames 
A  crooked  course,  when  not  a  goal 
is  there 
To  round  the  fervid  striving  of  the 
games  ? 
An  ignorance  of  means  may  minis- 
ter 
To  greatness;    but    an  ignorance    of 
aims 
Makes  it  impossible  to  be  great  at 
all. 


So  with  our  Tuscans.    Let  none  dare 
to  say, 
"  Here  virtue  never  can  be  nation- 
al; 
Here  fortitude  can  never  cut  a  way 
Between  the  Austrian  muskets,  out 
of  thrall: 
I  tell  you  rather,  that  whoever  may 
Discern  true  ends  here  shall  grow 
pure  enough 
To  love  them,  brave  enough  to  strive 
for  them, 
And  strong  to  reach  them,  though 
the  roads  be  rough ; 
That,    having    learnt— by    no    mere 
apothegm  — 
Not  just  the  draping  of  a  graceful 
stuff 
About   a   statue,   broidered    at    the 
hem, — 
Not  just  the  trilling  on   an  opera- 
stage, 
Of  "  liberta  "  to  bravos  —  (a  fair  word. 

Yet  too  allied  to  inarticulate  rage 
And    breathless    sobs,    for    singing, 
though  the  chord 
Were  deeper  than  they  struck  it ! ) 
but  the  gauge 
Of  civil  wants  sustained,  and  wrongs 
abhorred. 
The  serious,  sacred  meaning    and 
full  use 
Of  freedom  for  a  nation, — then,  in- 
deed, 
Our  Tuscans,  underneath  the  bloody 
dews 
Of    some    new   morning,    rising    up 
agreed 
And  bold,  will  want  no  Saxon  souls 
or  thews 
To  sweep  thoir  piazzas  clear  of  Aus- 
tria's breed. 

Alas,    alas !    it   was    not    so    this 
time. 
Conviction   was  not,  courage  failed, 
and  truth 
Was  something  t-o  be  doubted  of. 
The  mime 
Changed    masks,    because    a    mime. 
The  tide  as  smooth 
In  running  in  as  out,  no  sense  of 
crime 
Because  no  sense  of  virtue.    Sudden 
ruth 
Seized  on  the  people:  they  would 
have  again 
Their  good    Grand-duke,   and    leave 
Guerazzi,  though 


454 


CASA    GUIDT    WINDOWS. 


He  took   that  tax  from   Florence. 
"  Much  in  vain 
He  takes  it  from  the  market-carts,  we 
trow, 
"While  urgent  that  no  niarket^men 
remain, 
But  all  march  off,  and  leave  the  spade 
and  plough 
To  die  among  the  Lombards.    "Was 
it  thus 
The  dear  paternal  Duke  did  ?    Live 
the  Duke  !  " 
At  which  the  joy-bells  multitudi- 
nous, 
Swept  by  an  opposite  wind,  as  loudly 
shook. 
Call  back   the   mild  archbishop  to 
his  house, 
To  bless  the   people  with  his  fright- 
ened look, — 
He  shall  not  yet  be   hanged,  you 
comprehend  ! 
Seize  on  Guerazzi;  guard  him  in  full 
view, 
Or  else  we  stab  him  in  the  back  to 
end  ! 
Rub  out  those  chalked  devices,  set  up 
new 
The  Duke's  arms,  doff  your  Phry- 
gian caps,  and  mend 
The  pavement  of  the  piazzas  broke  into 
By  barren  j^oles  of  freedom :  smooth 
the  way 
For  the  ducal  carriage,  lest  his  High- 
ness sigh, 
"  Here  trees  of  liberty  grew  yester- 
day !  " 
"  Long  live  the  Duke  !  "    How  roared 
the  cannonry  ! 
How  rocked  the  bell-towers  !   and 
through  thickening  spray 
Of  nosegays,  wreaths,  and  kerchiefs 
tossed  on  high. 
How  marched  the  civic  guard,  the 
people  still 
Being  good  at  shouts,  especially  the 
boys  ! 
Alas,  poor  people,  of  an  unfledged 
will 
Most  fitly  expressed  by  such  a  callow 
voice  ! 
Alas,  still  poorer  Duke,  incapable 
Of    being  worthy   even   of    so  much 
noise  ! 

You  think  he  came  back  instantly, 
with  thanks. 
And  tears  in  his  faint  eyes,  and  hands 
extended 


To  stretch    the  franchise    through 
their  utmost  ranks  ? 
That    having,    like    a    father    appre- 
hended. 
He  came  to  pardon  fatherly  those 
pranks 
Played  out,  and  now  in  filial  service 
ended  ? 
That  some  love-token,  like  a  prince, 
he  threw 
To  meet  the  peo^ile's  love-call  in  re- 
turn ? 
Well,  how  he  came  I  will  relate  to 
you; 
And  if    your  hearts  should    burn  — 
why,  hearts  must  burn. 
To  make  the  ashes   which    things 
old  and  new 
Shall   be  washed  clean   in  —  as    this 
Duke  will  learn. 

From  Casa  Guidi  windows  gazing, 
then, 
I   saw  and  witness    how   the    Duke 
came  back. 
The  regular  tramp  of    horse,   and 
tread  of  men. 
Did  smite  the  silence  like  an  anvil 
black 
And    sparkless.      With    her    wide 
eyes  at  full  strain. 
Our  Tuscan  nurse  exclaimed,  "  Alack, 
alack, 
Signora  !  these  shall  be  the  Austri- 
ans."  —  "  Nay, 
Be  still,"  I  answered;  "  do  not  wake 
the  child  !  " 
—  For    so,    my    two-months'   baby 
sleeping  lay 
In  milky  dreams  upon  the  bed,  and 
smiled. 
And  I  thought,  "  He  shall  sleep  on, 
while  he  may. 
Through   the  world's  baseness:    not 
being  yet  defiled. 
Why   should   he   be   disturbed    by 
what  is  done  ?  " 
Then,  gazing,  I  beheld  the  long-drawn 
street 
Live  out,  from  end  to  end,  full  in 
the  sun. 
With  Austria's  thousand ;  sword  and 
bayonet. 
Horse,  foot,  artillery,  cannons  roll- 
ing on 
Like  blind,  slow  storm-clouds  gestant 
with  the  heat 
Of    undeveloped    lightnings,    each 
bestrode 


I     ^  I  ■  I  1^ 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


455 


By  a  single    man,   dust-white    from 
head  to  heel, 
Indifferent  as  the  dreadful  thing  he 
rode. 
Like  a  sculptured   Fate  serene  and 
terrible. 
As  some  smooth   river  which   has 
overflowed, 
Will  slow  and  silent  down  its  current 
wheel 
A    loosened    forest,   all    the    pines 
erect, 
So    swept,    in    mute    significance    of 
storm. 
The  marshalled  thousands;  not  an 
eye  deflect 
To  left  or  right,  to  catch  a  novel  form 
Of  Florence  city  adorned  by  archi- 
tect 
And  carver,  or  of  beauties   live   and 
warm 
Scared     at     the     casements,  —  all, 
straightforward  eyes 
And  faces,  held  as  steadfast  as  their 
swords, 
And  cognizant  of  acts,  not  image- 
ries. 
The  key,  O  Tuscans,  too  well  fits  the 
wards  ! 
Ye  asked  for  mimes,  —  these  bring 
you  tragedies; 
For  purple,  —  these   shall  wear  it  as 
your  lords. 
Ye  played  like  children,  —  die  like 
innocents. 
Ye  mimicked  lightnings  with  a  torch, 
—  the  crack 
Of  the  actual  bolt,  your  pastime  cir- 
cumvents. 
Ye  called  up  ghosts,  believing  they 
were  slack 
To  follow  any  voice  from  Gilboa's 
tents  .  .  . 
Here's    Samuel !  —  and     so,    Grand- 
dukes  come  back  ! 

And    yet    they    are    no    prophets, 
though  they  come: 
That  awful  mantle  they  are  drawing 
close 
Shall  be  searched  one  day  by  the 
shafts  of  doom 
Through  double  folds  now  hoodwink- 
ing the  brows. 
Resuscitated  monarchs  disentomb 
Grave-reptiles    with    them    in    their 
new  life-throes. 
Let  such  beware.     Behold,  the  peo- 
ple waits. 


Like    God:    as   he,  in    his  serene   of 
might, 
So  they,  in  their  endurance  of  long 
straits. 
Ye  stamp  no  nation  out,  though  day 
and  night 
Ye  tread  them  with   that  absolute 
heel  which  grates 
And  gi'inds  them   flat  from    all    at^ 
tempted  height. 
You  kill  worms  sooner  with  a  gar- 
den spade 
Than   you  kill  peoples:   peoples  will 
not  die; 
The  tail  curls  stronger  when   you 
lop  the  head : 
They  writhe    at  every   wound,    and 
multiply 
And  shudder  into  a  heap  of    life 
that's  made 
Thus  vital  from  God's  own  vitality. 
'Tis  hard  to  shrivel  back  a  day  of 
God's 
Once  fixed  for  judgment;  'tis  as  hard 
to  change 
The    peoples    when    they  rise    be- 
neath their  loads. 
And  heave  them   from    their    backs 
with  violent  wrench 
To   crush  the  oppressor:    for  that 
judgment-rod's 
The  measure  of  this  popular  revenge. 

Meanwhile,  from   Casa  Guidi  win- 
dows, we 
Beheld    the    armament    of    Austria 
flow 
Into  the  drowning  heart  of   Tus- 
cany; 
And  yet  none  wept,  none  cursed,  or, 
if  'twas  so. 
They  wept  and  cursed  in  silence. 
Silently 
Our  noisy  Tuscans  watched  the   in- 
vading foe ; 
They  had   learnt  silence.     Pressed 
against  the  wall. 
And  grouped  upon  the   church-stejis 
opi^osite, 
A  few  pale  men  and  women  stared 
at  all. 
God  knows  what  they  were  feeling, 
with  their  white 
Constrained  faces,  —  they,  so  prodi- 
gal 
Of  cry  and  gesture  when  the  world 
goes  right. 
Or  wrong  indeed.     But  here  was 
depth  of  wrong, 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


And  here,  still  water:  they  were  si- 
lent here; 
And  through  that  sentient  silence 
struck  along 
That  measured  tramp  from  which  it 
stood  out  clear, 
Distinct  the  sound  and  silence,  like 
a  gong 
At  midnight,  each  by  the  other  awful- 
ler,  — 
While  every  soldier  in  liis  cap  dis- 
played 
A  leaf  of  olive.     Dusty,  bitter  thing  ! 
Was  such  plucked  at  Novara,  is  it 
said  ? 

A  cry  is  up  in  England,  whicli  doth 
ring 
The  hollow  world  through,  that  for 
ends  of  ti-ade 
And  virtue,  and  God's  better  worship- 
ing, 
We    henceforth    should    exalt    the 
name  of  Peace, 
And  leave  those  rusty  wars  that  eat 
the  soul,  — 
Besides  their  clippings  at  our  golden 
fleece. 
I,   too,  have   loved  peace,  and   from 
bole  to  bole 
Of  immemorial  undeciduous  trees 
Would  write,  as  lovers  use  upon  a 
scroll, 
The  holy  name  of  Peace,  and  set  it 
high 
Where  none  could  pluck  it  down.     On 
trees,  I  say. 
Not     upon     gibbets  !  —  With      the 
greenery 
Of  dewy  branches  and   the   flowery 
May, 
Sweet  mediation  betwixt  earth  and 
sky 
Providing,  for   the   shepherd's    holi- 
day. 
Not  upon  gibbets  !  though  the  vul- 
ture leaves 
The   bones  to  quiet,   which  he  first 

picked  bare. 
Not    upon    dungeons !    though    the 

wretch  who  grieves 
And  groans  within,  less  stirs  the  outer 
air 
Than  any  little  field-mouse  stirs  the 
sheaves. 
Not  upon    chain-bolts !    though    the 
slave's  despair 
Has  dulled  his  helpless  miserable 
brain, 


And  left  him  blank  beneath  the  free- 
man's whip 
To  sing  and  laugh  out  idiocies  of 
pain. 
Nor  yet  on  starving  homes  !   where 
many  a  lip 
Has  sobbed  itself   asleep  through 
curses  vain. 
I  love  no  peace  which  is  not  fellow- 
ship. 
And  which  includes  not  mercy.     I 
would  have 
Rather    the    raking    of     the     guns 
across 
The    world,    and    shrieks    against 
heaven's  architrave; 
Rather  the  struggle  in   the  slippery 
fosse 
Of  dying  men  and  horses,  and  the 
wave 
Blood-bubbling.  .  .  .  Enough     said  ! 
—  by  Christ's  own  cross, 
And  by  this  faint  heart  of  my  wo- 
manhood. 
Such  things  are  better  than  a  Peace 
that  sits 
Beside  a  hearth  in  self-commended 
mood, 
And  takes  no  thought  how  wind  and 
rain  by  fits 
Are  howling  out  of  doors  against  the 
good 
Of  the  poor  wanderer.     What !   your 
peace  admits 
Of  outside  anguish  while  it  keeps  at 
home  ? 
I  loathe  to  take  its  name  upon  my 
tongue. 
'Tis  nowise  peace:  'tis  treason,  stiff 
with  doom ; 
'Tis  gagged  despair,  and  inarticulate 
wrong. 
Annihilated  Poland,  stifled  Rome, 
Dazed     Naples,     Hungary    fainting 
'neath  the  thong. 
And    Austria    wearing    a    smooth 
olive-leaf 
On  her  brute  forehead,  while  her  hoofs 
outpress 
The  life  from  these  Italian  souls  in 
brief. 
0    Lord  of    peace,  who  art  Lord  of 
righteousness. 
Constrain    the     anguished    worlds 
from  sin  and  grief. 
Pierce  them  with  conscience,  purge 
them  with  redress, 
And  give  us  peace  which  is  no  coun- 
terfeit ! 


I    ^m  '  f  *  ^ 


CASA    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


457 


But  wherefore  should  we  look    out 
any  more 
From  Casa  Guidi  windows  ?    Shut 
them  straight, 
And  let  us  sit  down  by  the  folded  door, 
And  veil  our  saddened  faces,  and  so 
wait 
What    next    the     judgment-heavens 
make  ready  for. 
I  have  grown  too  weary  of  these 
windows.     Sights 
Come  thick  enough  and  clear  enough 
in  thought, 
Without  tlie  sunshine:   souls  have 
inner  lights. 
And  since  the  Grand-duke  has  come 
back,  and  brought 
This  army  of  the  North  which  thus 
requites 
His  filial  South,  we  leave  him  to  be 
taught. 
His  South,  too,  has  learnt  something 
certainly, 
Whereof  the  practice  will  bring  profit 
soon; 
And  peradventure  other  eyes  may 
see. 
From  Casa  Guidi  windows,  what  is 
done 
Or  undone.    Whatsoever  deeds  they 
be, 
Pope  Pius  will  be  glorified  in  none. 

Record  that  gain,  Mazzini  1     It  shall 
top 
Some  heights  of  sorrow.     Peter's  rock, 
so  named, 
Shall  lure  no  vessel  any  more  to 
drop 
Among  the  breakers.    Peter's  chair  is 
shamed. 
Like  any  vulgar  throne  the  nations 
lop 
To  pieces   for    their    firewood    unre- 
claimed; 
And  when  it  burns,  too,  we  shall 
see  as  well 
In  Italy  as  elsewhere.     Let  it  burn. 
The  cross  accounted  still  adorable 
Is  Christ's  cross  only  !    If  the  thief's 
would  earn 
Some  stealthy  genuflexions,  we  re- 
bel; 
And  here  the  impenitent  thief's  has 
had  its  turn, 
As  God  knows;  and  the  people  on 
their  knees 
Scoff,    and    toss    back    the    crosiers 
stretched  like  yokes 


To  press  their  heads  down  lower  by 
degrees. 
So    Italy,    by   means    of    these    last 
strokes. 
Escapes  the  danger  which  preceded 
these, 
Of  leaving  captured  hands  in  cloven 
oaks,— 
Of    leaving  very  souls   within  the 
buckle 
Whence  bodies  struggled  outward,  — 
of  suj^posing 
That  freemen  may  like  bondsmen 
kneel  and  truckle. 
And  then  stand  up  as  usual,  without 
losing 
An  inch  of  stature. 

Those  whom  she-wolves  suckle 
Will  bite  as  wolves  do  in  the  grapple- 
closing 
Of  adverse  interests.     This  at  last  is 
known, 
(Thank  Pius  for  the  lesson)  that  albeit 
Among    the    Popedom's    hundred 
heads  of  stone 
Which  blink  down  on  you  from  the 
roof's  retreat 
In   Siena's  tiger-striped  cathedral, 
Joan 
And  Borgia  'mid  their  fellows  you  may 
greet, 
A  harlot  and  a  devil,  — you  will  see 
Not  a  man,  still  less  angel,  grandly 
set 
With  open  soul  to  render  man  more 
free. 
The  fishers  are  still  thinking  of  the 
net. 
And,  if  not  thinking  of  the  hook 
too,  we 
Are  counted  somewhat  deeply  in  their 
debt ; 
But  that's  a  rare  case  —  so,  by  hook 
and  crook, 
They  take  the  advantage,  agonizing 
Christ 
By  rustier  nails  than  those  of  Ce- 
dron's  brook, 
I'    the    people's    body  very   cheaply 
priced,  — 
And  quote  high   priesthood  out  of 
Holy  book. 
While    buying  death-fields   with   the 
sacrificed. 

Priests,   priests,  —  there's    no    such 
name  !  —  God's  own,  except 
Ye  take  most  vainly.     Through  hea- 
ven's lifted  gate 


458 


CASA    QUID  I    WINDOWS. 


The  priestly   ephod  in    sole    glory 
swept 
When    Christ  ascended,   entered  in, 
and  sate 
(With  Aictor  face  sublimely  over- 
wept) 
At  Deity's  right  hand  to  mediate. 

He  alone,  he  forever.     On  his  breast 
The  Urim  and  the  Thiimmim,  fed  with 
fire 
From  the  full  Godhead,  flicker  with 
the  unrest 
Of  human  pitiful  heart  beats.     Come 
up  higher, 
All  Christians.     Levi's  tribe  is  dis- 
possest. 
That  solitary  alb  ye  shall  admire. 
But  not  cast    lots    for.     The    last 
chrism,  poured  right. 
Was  on  that  Head,  and  poured  for 
burial, 
And  not  for  domination  in  men's 
sight. 
What  are  these  churches  ?    The  old 
temple  wall 
Doth  overlook  them  juggling  with 
the  sleight 
Of  surplice,   candlestick,    and    altar- 
pall; 
East  church  and  west  church,  ay, 
north  church  and  south, 
Rome's  church  and    England's  —  let 
them  all  repent, 
And  make  concordats  'twixt  their 
soul  and  mouth. 
Succeed  St.  Paul  by  working  at  the 
tent. 
Become  infallible  guides  by  speak- 
ing truth, 
And  excommunicate  their  pride  that 
bent 
And  cramped  the  souls  of  men. 

Why,  even  here, 
Priestcraft    burns    out,    the    twined 
linen  blazes; 
Not,   like  asbestos,   to  grow  white 
and  clear. 
But  all    to    perish !    while    the    fire- 
smell  raises 
To  life  some  swooning  spirits,  who 
last  year 
Lost  breath  and  heart  in  these  church- 
stifled  places. 
Why,  almost  through  this  Pius,  we 
believed 
The  i^riesthood  could   be  an   honest 
thing,  he  smiled 
So  saintly  while  our  corn  was  being 
sheaved 


For    his    own    granaries !      Showing 
now  defiled 
His  hireling  hands,  a  better  help's 
achieved 
Than  if  they  blessed  us  shepherd-like 
and  mild. 
False  doctrine,  strangled  by  its  own 
amen, 
Dies  in  the  throat  of  all  this  nation. 
Who 
Will  speak  a  pope's  name  as  they 
rise  again  ? 
What  woman  or  what  child  will  count 
him  true  ? 
What  dreamer  praise  him  with  the 
voice  or  pen  ? 
What  man  fight  for  him  ?  —  Pius  takes 
his  due. 

Record   that  gain,  Mazzini !  —  Yes, 
but  first 
Set  down  thy  people's  faults;  set  down 
the  want 
Of  souI-conA'iction;   set  down   aims 
dispersed, 
And    incoherent    means,    and    valor 
scant 
Because  of  scanty  faith,  and  schisms 
accursed 
Tliat    wrench     these     brother-hearts 
from  covenant 
With  freedom  and  each  other.     Set 
down  this, 
And    this,  and    see    to    overcome  it 
when 
The  seasons  bring  the  fruits  thou 
wilt  not  miss 
If    wary.      Let    no    cry    of    patriot 
men 
Distract  thee  from  the  stern  analy- 
sis 
Of  masses  who   cry  only  !   keep  thy 
ken 
Clear  as  thy  soul  is  virtuous.    He- 
roes' blood 
Splashed  up  against  thy  noble  brow 
in  Rome; 
Let  such  not  blind  thee  to  an  inter- 
lude 
Which  was  not    also    holy,   yet  did 
come 
'Twixt  sacramental  actions,  —  broth- 
erhood 
Despised  even  there,  and  something 
of  the  doom 
Of  Remus  in  the  trenches.    Listen 
now  — 
Rossi  died  silent  near  where  Caesar 
died. 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


459 


Hk  (lid  not  say,  "  Mv  Brutus,  is  it 
thou?" 
But  Italy  unquestioned  testified, 
"J  killed   him!    I  am    Brutus. — I 
avow." 
At  which  the  whole  world's  laugli  of 
scorn  replied, 
"  A  poor  maimed  copy  of  Brutus  !  " 
Too  much  like, 
Indeed,    to    be    so    unlike  !    too    un- 
skilled 
At  Pliilii"ipi  and   the  honest  hattle- 
pike, 
To  l)c  so  skilful  where  a  man  is  killed 
Near  Pompey's  statue,  and  the  dag- 
gers strike 
At  unawares  i'  the  throat.     AVas  thus 
fulfilled 
An    omen    once   of    jSIichel    Ange- 
lo?  — 
When  Marcus  Brutus  he  conceived 
complete, 
And  strove  to  hurl  him  out  by  blow 
on  blow 
Upon   the  marble,  at  Arfs  tliunder- 
lieat, 
Till  haplj'  (some  pre-shadow  rising 
slow 
Of  what  his  Italy  would  fancy  meet 
To   be  called  Brutus)  straight  his 
plastic  hand 
Fell  back  before  his  prophet-soul,  and 
left 
A   fragment,   a   maimed   Brntiis,  — 
but  more  grand 
Thau  this,  so  named  at  Rome,  was  ! 

Let  thy  weft 
Present  one  ^voof  and  warp,  Mazzi- 
ni !     Stand 
"With  no  man  hankering  for  a  dagger's 
heft, 
No.     not    for    Italy !  —  nor     stand 
apart, 
No,    not    for    the    Republic !  —  from 
those  pure 
Brave  men  who  hold   the  level  of 
thy  heart 
In    iiatriot    truth,    as    lover    and    as 
doer. 
Albeit   tliey  will   not  follow  where 
thou  art 
As  extreme  theorist.     Trust  and  dis- 
trust fewer. 
And  so  bind  strong,  and  keep  un- 
stained the  cause 
"Which    (God's    sign    granted)    war- 
trumps  newly  blown 
Shall  yet  annunciate  to  the  world's 
applause. 


But  now,  the  world   is   busy:    it   has 
grown 
A  Fair-going  world.     Imperial  Eng- 
land draws 
The   tlowiug  ends  of   the  oarth  from 
Fez,  Canton, 
Delhi,  and  Stockholm,  Athens  and 
Madrid, 
The  Russias  and  the  vast  Americas, 
As  if  a  queen   drew  in  her  robes 
amid 
Her  golden    cincture,  —  isles,   penin- 
sulas. 
Capes,  continents,  far  inland  coun- 
tries hid 
By  jasper-sands  and  hills  of  cliryso- 
pras. 
All     trailing     in     their     splendors 
through  the  door 
Of     tlie     gorgeous     Crystal     Palace. 
Every  nation, 
To   every   other    nation   strange   of 
yore. 
Gives  face  to  face   the   civic  saluta- 
tion. 
And  holds  up  in  a  proud  right  hand 
before 
That   congress   the   best  work  which 
she  can  fashion 
By  her  best  means.     "  These  corals, 
will  you  please 
To  match  against  your  oaks  ?    They 
grow  as  fast 
Within    my    wilderness    of    juu-ple 
seas."  — 
"  This  diamond  stared  upon  me  as  I 
passed 
(As  a  live  god's  eye  from  a  marble 
frieze) 
Along    a    dark    of    diamonds.    Is    it 
classed?  "  — 
"  I  wove  these  stuffs  so  subtly  that 
the  gold 
Swims  to  the  surface  of  the  silk  like 
cream 
And  curdles  to  fair  patterns.    Ye 
behold!  "  — 
"  These     delicatest     muslins    rather 
seem 
Than  b^,  you  think  ?    Nay,  touch 
them  and  be  bold, 
Though  such  veiled  Chakhi's  face  in 
Hafiz'  dream."  — 
"  These  carpets  —  you  walk  slow  on 
them  like  kings. 
Inaudible    like    spirits,    while    your 
foot 
Dips  deep  in  velvet  roses  and  such 
things."  — 


460 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


"  Even  ApoUonius    might  commend 
this  tiute;! 
The    music,   winding    through    the 
stops,  upsprings 
To  make  tlie  player  very  rich:   com- 
pute !  " 
"  Here's    goblet-glass,    to    take    in 
with  your  wine 
The  very  sun  its  grapes  were  ripened 
under: 
Drink  light  and  juice  together,  and 
each  tine."  — 
"This  model  of  a  steam-ship  moves 
your  wonder  ? 
You' should  liehold  it  crushing  dowu 
-  the  brine 
Like  a  blind  Jove,  who  feels  his  way 
with  thunder."  — 
"  Here's    sculpture !     Ah,    loe    live 
too  !  why  not  throw 
Our  life  into  our  marbles?    Art  has 
place 
For  other  artists  after  Angelo."  — 
■'  I  tried  to  paint  out  here  a  natural 
face ; 
For  nature  includes  Raffael,  as  we 
know. 
Not  Raffael  nature.    Will  it  help  my 
case  ? "  — 
"  Methinks  you  will  not  match  this 
steel  of  ours  !  "  — 
"  Nor  you  this  porcelain  !     One  might 
dream  the  clay 
Retained  in    it    the    larva?    of    the 
flowers, 
They  bud  so  round  the  cup,  the  old 
spring-way. ' '  — 
"  Nor    you    these    carveu    woods, 
where  birds  in  bowers 
With  twisting  snakes  and  climbing 
cupids  play." 

0  Magi  of  the  east  and  of  the  west. 
Your  incense,   gold,  and   myrrh  are 

excellent !  — 
What  gifts  for  Christ,  then,  bring 
ye  with  the  rest  ? 
Your  hands    have    worked    well:    is 
your  courage  s]ient 
In    handwork    only  ?     Have    you 
nothing  best, 
AVhich  generous    souls    may  perfect 
and  present, 

1  Philostratus  relates  of  Apellonius,  bow 
lie  objected  to  the  musical  instrument  of 
Linus  the  Rbodian,  that  it  could  not  enrich 
or  beautify.  The  liistory  of  music  in  oiu' 
day  would  satisfy  the  philosopher  on  one 
point  at  least. 


And  He  shall  thank  the  givers  for  ? 
no  light 
Of  teaching,  liberal  nations,  for  the 
poor 
Who  sit  in  darkness  when  it  is  not 
night  ? 
No  cure  for  wicked  children  ?    Christ 
—  no  cure  ! 
No  help  for  women  sobbing  out  of 
sight 
Because    men    made    the    laws  ?    no 
brothel-lure 
Burnt  out   by  popidar   lightnings  ? 
Hast  thou  found 
No  remedy,   my  England,   for   such 
woes  ? 
No  outlet,  Austria,  for  the  scourged 
and  bound. 
No  entrance  for  the  exiled  ?  no  re- 
pose, 
Russia,  for  knouted  Poles  worked 
underground, 
And  gentle  ladies    bleached    among 
the  snows  ? 
No  mercy  for  the  slave,  America  ? 
No  hope  for  Rome,  free  France,  chi- 
valric  France  ? 
Alas,    great    nations    have     great 
shames,  I  say. 
No  pity,  O  world,   no  tender  utter- 
ance 
Of       benediction,       and       praj-ers 
stretched  this  way 
For  poor  Italia,  baffled  by  mischance  ? 
O  gracious  nations,  give  some  ear 
to  me  ! 
You  all  go  to  your  Fair,  and  I  am  one 

Who  at  the  roadside  of  humanity 
Beseech  your  alms,  —  God's  justice  to 
be  done. 
So,  prosper ! 

In  the  name  of  Italy, 
Meantime  her  jjatriot  dead  have  beni- 
son. 
They  only  have  done   well;    and, 
what  they  did 
Being  perfect,  it  shall  triumph.     Let 
them  slumber: 
No  king  of  Egypt  in  a  pyramid 
Is    safer    from    oblivion,   though    he 
number 
Full  seventy  cerements  for  a  cover- 
lid. 
These  dead  be  seeds  of  life,  and  shall 
encumber 
The  sad  heart  of  the  land  until  it 
loose 
The  clammy  clods,  and   let  out  the 
spring-growth 


CAS  A    GUIDI    WINDOWS. 


461 


111    beatific    green    through    every 
bruise. 
The  tyrant  should  take  heed  to  what 
he  dotli, 
Since  every  victim-carrion  turns  to 
use, 
And  drives  a  chariot,  like  a  god  made 
wroth. 
Against  each  piled  injustice.     Ay, 
the  least, 
Dead  for  Italia,  not  in  vain  has  died; 
Though    many    vainly,    ere    life's 
struggle  ceased. 
To  mad  dissimilar  ends  have  swerved 
aside ; 
Eacli    grave    her    nationality    has 
pieced 
By  its  own  majestic  breadth,  and  for- 
tified, 
And  pinned  it  deeper  to  the  soil. 
Forlorn 
Of    thanks  be,   therefore,  no  one  of 
these  graves  ! 
Not  hers, —who,  at  her  husband's 
side,  in  scorn, 
Outfaced  the  whistling  shot  and  hiss- 
ing waves. 
Until  she  felt  lier  little  babe  unborn 
Recoil,  within  her,  from  the  violent 
staves 
And  bloodhounds  of  the  world:  at 
which  her  life 
Drojit  inwards  from  her  eyes,  and  fol- 
lowed it 
Beyond    the    hunters.    Garibaldi's 
wife 
And  child  died  so.    And  now  the  sea- 
weeds fit 
Her  body,  like  a  proper  shroud  and 
coif. 
And  murmurously  the  ebbing  waters 
grit 
The  little  pebbles  while  she  lies  in- 
terred 
In  the  sea-sand.     Perhaps,  ere  dying 
thus. 
She   looked  up  in   his  face  (which 
never  stirred 
From    its    clinched    anguish)    as    to 
make  excuse 
For  leaving  him  for  his,  if  so  she 
erred. 
He  well   remembers   that  she  could 
not  choose. 
A  memorable  grave  !     Another  is 
At  Genoa.    There  a  king  may  fitly 
lie, 
"Who,  bursting  that  heroic  heart  of 
his 


At   lost  Novara,   that  he  could    not 
die, 
(Though  thrice  into  the    cannon's 
eyes  for  this 
He  plunged  his  shuddering  steed,  and 
felt  the  sky 
Reel  back  between  the  fire-shocks) 
stripped  away 
The  ancestral  ermine  ere  the  smoke 
had  cleared. 
And,  naked  to  the  soul,  that  none 
might  say 
His  kingship  covered  what  was  base 
and  bleared 
With  treason,  went  out  straight  an 
exile,  yea, 
An   exiled  patriot.     Let  him   be  re- 
vered. 

Yea,  verily,  Charles  Albert  has  dietl 
well; 
And  if  he  lived   not  all  so,   as  one 
spoke. 
The  sin  pass  softly  with  the  pass- 
ing-bell : 
For  he  was  shriven,  I  think,  in  can- 
non-smoke. 
And,   taking  off  his  crown,  made 
visible 
A  hero's  forehead.    Shaking  Austria's 
yoke. 
He  shattered   his    own    hand    and 
heart.     "  So  best," 
His  last  words  were  upon  his  lonely 
l)ed, 
I  do  not  end  like  popes  and  dukes 
at  least  — 
"Thank  God  for  it."    And  now  that 
he  is  dead. 
Admitting  it  is  proved  and  mani- 
fest 
That    he    was    worthy,    with    a    dis- 
crowned head, 
To  measure  heights  with  patriots, 
let  them  stand 
Beside  the  man  in  his  Oporto  shroud, 
And  each  vouchsafe  to  take  him  by 
the  hand, 
And  kiss  him  on  the  cheek,  and  say 
aloud, 
"Thou,  too,  hast  suffered  for  our 
native  land  ! 
My  brother,  thou  art  one  of  us  !   be 
proud." 

Still,  graves,  when  Italy  is  talked 
upon. 
Still,   still,    the    patriot's    tomb,    the 
stranger's  hate. 


\-*-m-^ 


462 


CAS  A    GVIDI    WINDOWS. 


Still  Niobe  !  still  fainting  in  the  sun, 
By  whose  most  dazzling  arrows  vio- 
late 
Her  beauteous  offsjiring  perished  ! 
has  she  won 
Nothing  but  garlands  for  the  graves, 
from  Fate  ? 
Nothing  but  death-songs  ?    Yes,  be 
it  understood 
Life  throbs  in  noble  Piedmont !  while 
the  feet 
Of  Rome's  claj"  image,  dabbled  soft 
in  blood, 
Grow  fiat  with  dissolution,  and,   as 
meet, 
Will    soon    bo    shovelled    off    like 
other  mud, 
To  leave  the  passage  free  in  church 
and  street. 
And  I,  who  first  took  hope  up  in 
this  song, 
Because  a  child  was  singing  one  .  .  . 
behold. 
The  hope  and  omen  were  not,  hap- 
ly, wrong  !  , 
Poets  are  soothsayers  still,  like  those 
of  old 
AVho  studied  flights  of  doves;   and 
creatures  young 
And  tender,   mighty  meanings  maj' 
unfold. 

The   sun   strikes   through  the  win- 
dows, up  the  floor; 
Stand  out  in  it,  my  own  young  Flor- 
entine, 
Not  two  j^ears  old,  and  let  me  see 
thee  more  ! 
It  grows   along   thy  amber   curls,  to 
shine 
Brighter    than    elsewhere.      Now, 
look  straight  before. 
And  fix  thy  brave  blue  English  eyes 
on  mine. 
And  from  my  soixl,  which  fronts  the 
f  iiti;re  so, 
"With  unabashed  and  unabated  gaze, 
Teach  me  to  hope  for,  what  the  an- 
gels know 
When  they  smile  clear  as  thou  dost, 
Down  God's  ways 
With   just   alighted  feet,   between 
the  snow 
And  snowdrops,  where  a  little  lamb 
ma  J'  graze, 
Thou  hast  no  fear,  ray  lamb,  about 
the  road. 


Albeit  in  our  vain-glory  we  assume 
That,  less  than  we  have,  thou  hast 
learnt  of  God. 
Stand  out,  my  blue-eyed  prophet !  — 
thou  to  whom 
The  earliest  world-day   light   that 
ever  flowed. 
Through       Casa      Guidi       windows 
chanced  to  come  ! 
Now  shake  the  glittering  nimbus  of 
thy  hair. 
And  be   God's  witness  that  tlie  ele- 
mental 
New  springs    of    life    are    gushing 
everywhere 
To    cleanse    the    water-courses,    and 
prevent  all 
Concrete  obstructions  which  infest 
the  air  ! 
That  earth's  alive,  and  gentle  or  un- 
gentle 
Motions    within    her    signifj'    but 
growth  !  — 
The  ground  swells  greenest  o'er  the 
laboring  moles. 

Howe'er  the  uneasy  world  is  vexed 
and  wroth. 
Young  children,  lifted  high  on  parent 
souls, 
Look  round  them  with  a  smile  upon 
the  mouth. 
And  take  for  music  every  bell   that 
tolls; 
(Who  said  we  should   be   better  if 
like  these  ?) 
But  ive  sit  murmuring  for  the  future, 
though 
Posterity  is  smiling  on  our  knees. 
Convicting  us  of  folly.     Let  us  go  — 
We  will  trust  God.     The  blaidf  in- 
terstices 
Men    take    for  ruins,   he  will    build 
into 
With  pillared  marbles  rare,  or  knit 
across 
With  generous  arches,  till  the  fane's 
complete. 
This    world    has    no    perdition,    if 
some  loss. 

Such   cheer  I  gather  from  thy  smil- 
ing, sweet ! 
The    selfsame    cherub-faces    which 
emboss 

The  Veil,  lean  inward  to  the  Mercy- 
seat. 


1/ 


POEMS  BEFORE  CO^^GRESS. 


NAPOLEOX   III.    IX   ITALY. 


Emperor,  Emperor ! 

From  the  centre  to  the  shore, 

From  the  Seine  back  to  the  Rhine, 
Stood  eight  millions  \\p  and  swore 
By  their  manhood's  right  divine 
So  to  elect  and  legislate. 

This  man  shonld  renew  the  line 
Broken  in  a  strain  of  fate, 
And  leagned  kings  at  Waterloo, 
When  the  people's  hands  let  go. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

II. 

With  a  universal  shout 
They  took  the  old  regalia  out 
From  an  open  grave  that  day,  — 

From  a  grave  that  would  not  close. 
Where  the  first  Napoleon  lay 

Expectant  in  repose. 
As  still  as  Merlin,  Avith  his  conquer- 
ing face 
Turned  up  in  its  unquenchable  ap- 
peal 
To  men  and  heroes  of  the  advancing 
race. 
Prepared  to  set  the  seal 
Of  what  has  been  on  what  shall  be. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

III. 

The  thinkers  stood  aside 
To  let  the  nation  act. 
Some  hated  the  new-constituted  fact 
Of  empire,  as  pride  treading  on  their 

pride. 
Some  quailed,  lest  what  was  poison- 
ous in  the  past 
Should  graft  itself  in  that  Druidic 
bough 
On  this  green  Now. 
Some  cursed,  because  at  last 
The  open  heavens,  to  which  thej'  had 

looked  in  vain 
For  many  a  golden  fall  of  marvellous 
rain, 


»Were  closed  in  brass;  and  some 
Wept  on,  because  a  gone  thing  could 

not  come ; 
And  some  were  silent,  doubting  all 

things  for 
That  popular  conviction,  —  evermore 
Emperor. 

jcv. 

That  day  I  did  irot  hate. 

Nor  doubt,  nor  quail,  nor  curse. 
I,   reverencing    the    people,   did  not 

bate 
My  reverence  of  their  deed  and  ora- 
cle, 
Nor  vainly  prate 

Of  better  and  of  worse 
Against  the  great  conclusion  of  their 
will. 
And  yet,  O  voice  and  verse  ! 
Which  God  set  in  me  to  acclaim  and 

sing 
Conviction,  exaltation,  aspiration. 
We  gave  no  music  to  the  patent  thing, 
Nor  spared  a  holy  rhythm  to  throb 

and  swim 
About  the  name  of  him 
Translated  to  the  sphere  of  domina- 
tion 
By  democratic  passion.    • 
I  was  not  used,  at  least. 

Nor  can  be,  now  or  then,  \ 
To  stroke  the  ermine  beast  I 
On  any  kind  of  throne 
(Though  builded  by  a  nation  for  its 
own,) 
And  swell  the  surging  choir  for  kings 
of  men, — 
"  Emperor 
Evermore." 


But  now.  Napoleon,  now. 
That,  leaving  far  liehind  the  purpl0^ 
throng 
Of  vulgar  monarchs,  thou 
Tread'st  higher  in  thy  deed 
Than  stair  of  throne  can  lead, 

463 


464 


POEMS   BEFORE    CONGRESS. 


To  help  ill  the  hour  of  wrong 
The  broken  hearts   of  nations   to  be 
strong,  — 
Now,  lifted  as  thou  art 
To  the  level  of  jmre  song. 
We  stand  to  meet  thee  on  these  Al- 
pine snows. 
And  while  the    palpitating    jieaks 
Ijreak  out 
Ecstatic  from  somnambular  repose, 
With  answers  to  the  iiresence  and 
the  shout, 
We,   i"ioets  of  the  people,  who  take 
part 
Witli     elemental     jiistice,    natural 
right, 
Join  in  our  echoes  also,  nor  refrain. 
We  meet  thee,  O  Napoleon  !  at  this 
height 
At  last,  and  find  thee  great  enough  to 

praise. 
Receive    the    poet's    chrism,    which 
smells  beyond 
The  priest's,  aud  pass  thy  ways: 
An  English  poet  warns  thee  to  main- 
tain 
God's   word,    not   England's:  let  his 

truth  be  true 
And  all  men  liars  !    with    his   truth 

respond 
To  all  men's  lie.     Exalt  the  sword, 

aud  smite 
On  that  long  anvil  of  the  Apennine 
Where    Austria    forged    the    Italian 

chain  in  view 
Of  seven  consenting  nations,  sparks 
of  fine 
Admonitory  light. 
Till   men's  ej'es  wink  before  convic- 
tions new. 
Flash  in  God's  justice  to  the  world's 

amaze. 
Sublime  Deliverer  !  after  many  days 
Found  worthy  of  the  deed  thou  art 
come  to  do  — 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


VI. 

But  Italy,  my  Italy, 

Can  it  last — this  gleam  ? 
Can  she  live  and  be  strong, 

Or  is  it  another  dream. 
Like  the  rest  we  have  dreamed  so 

long? 
And  shall  it,  must  it,  be, 
That,  after  the  battle-cloud  has  bro- 
ken, 


She  will  die  off  again 

Like  the  rain. 
Or  like  a  poet's  song 

Sung  of  her,  sad  at  the  end, 
Because  her  name  is  Italy,  — 

Die,  and  count  no  friend  ? 
Is  it  true,  may  it  l)e  spoken, 

That  she  who  has  lain  so  still, 
W^ith  a  wound  in  her  breast, 
And  a  liower  in  her  hand, 
And  a  gravestone  under  her  head. 

While  every  nation  at  will 
Beside  her  has  dared  to  stand, 
And  tiout  her  with  pity  and  scorn. 

Saying,  "  She  is  at  rest. 
She  is  fair,  she  is  dead, 
And,  leaving  room  in  her  stead 
To  L^s  who  are  later  born, 

This  is  certainly  best  !  " 
Saying,  "  Alas,  she  is  fair. 
Very  fair,  but  dead:  give  place. 
And  so  we  have  room  for  the  race." 
—  Can  it  be  true,  be  true. 
That  she  lives  anew  ? 
That  she  rises  \\\)  at  the  shout  of  her 
sons, 

At  the  trumpet  of  France, 
And  lives  anew  ?    Is  it  true 

That    she    has    not    moved    in    a 
trance, 
As  in  Forty-eight? 

When  her  ej'es  were  troubled  with 
blood 
Till  she  knew  not  friend  from  foe, 
Till  her  hand  was  caught  in  a  strait 
Of  her  cerement,  and  bafiled  so 

From  doing  the  deed  she  would ; 
And  her  weak  foot  stumbled  across 
The  grave  of  a  king. 
And  down  she  drojit  at  heavy  loss 

Aud  we  gloomily  covered  her  face, 
and  said, 
"  We  have  dreamed  the  thing: 

She  is  not  alive,  but  dead." 


VII. 

Now,  shall  we  say 

Our  Italy  lives  indeed  ? 
And,  if  it  were  not  for  the  beat  and 

bray 
Of  drum  and  trump  of  martial  men. 
Should  we  feel  the  underground  hea^■e 

and  strain, 
Where  heroes  left  their  dust  as  a 

seed 
Sure  to  emerge  one  day  ? 
And,  if  it  were  not  for  the  rhythmic 

march 


i 


NAPOLEON   11  r.    IN   ITALY. 


465 


Of 


and 


France  and  Piedmont's  donblo 
hosts, 
Should  we  hear  the  ghosts 
Thrill  through  ruined  aisle  and  areh, 

Throb  along  the  frescoed  wall, 
Whisper  an  oath  by  that  divine 
They    left    in     pictni-e,     book, 
stone. 
That  Italy  is  not  dead  at  all  ? 
Ay,  if  it  were  not  for  the  tears  in  our 

eyes,  — 
These  tears  of  a  sudden  i^assionate 

joy  — 

Shoiild  we  see  her  arise 
From  the  place  where  the  wicked  are 

overthrown, 
Italy,  Italy?  loosed  at  length 

From  the  tyrant's  thrall, 
I'ale  and  calm  in  her  strength  ? 
Pale  as  the  silver  cross  of  Savoy 
AVhen  the  hand  that  bears  the  flag  is 

brave. 
And  not  a  breath  is  stirring,  save 

What  is  blown 
Over  the  war-trump's  lip  of  brass, 
Ere  Garibaldi  forces  the  pass  ! 


VIII. 

Ay,  it  is  so,  even  so. 

Ay,  and  it  shall  be  so. 
Each  broken  stone  that  long  ago 
She  flung  behind  her  as  she  went 
In  discouragement  and  bewilderment 
Through  tlie    cairns    of    Time,    and 

missed  her  way 
Between  to-day  and  yesterday, 

Up  springs  a  living  man. 
Ancl  each  man  stands  with  his  face  in 
the  light 

Of  his  own  drawn  sword, 
Ready  to  do  what  a  hero  can. 

Wall  to  sap,  or  river  to  ford. 
Cannon  to  front,  or  foe  to  pursue,  — 
Still  ready  to  do,  and  sworn  to  be 
true. 

As  a  man  and  a  patriot  can. 

Piedmontese,  Neapolitan, 
Lombard,  Tuscan,  Romagnole, 
Each  man's  bodj'  having  a  soul,  — 
Count  how  many  they  stand. 
All  of  them  sons  of  the  land. 

Every  live  man  there 
Allied  to  a  dead  man  below. 

And  the  deadest  with  blood  to  spare 
To  quicken  a  living  hand 
In  case  it  should  ever  be  slow. 
Count  how  many  they  come 
To  the  beat  of  Piedmont's  drum, 


With  faces  keener  and  grayer 
Than  swords  of  the  Austrian  slayer. 
All  set  against  the  foe. 

"  Emperor 

Evermore." 

IX. 

Out  of  the  dust,  where  they  ground 
them; 
Out  of  the  holes,  where  they  dogged 
them; 
Out  of  the  hulks,  where  they  wound 
them 
In  iron,  tortured  and  flogged  them; 
Out  of  the  streets,  where  they  chased 
them. 
Taxed  them,  and  then  bayonetted 
them ; 
Out  of  the  homes,  where  they  spied 
on  them, 
(Using  their  daughters  and  wives;) 
Out  of  the  church  where  they  fret- 
ted them. 
Rotted  their  souls  and  debased  them. 
Trained     them    to     answer     witli 
knives. 
Then  cursed  them  all  at  their  pray- 
ers; 
Out  of  cold  lands,  not  theirs. 
Where    they    exiled    them,    starved 

them,  lied  on  then>, — 
Back  they  come  like  a  wind,  in  vain 
Cramped  up  in  the  hills,  that  roars 
its  road 
The  stronger  into  the  open  plain ; 
Or  like  a  Are  that  burns  the  hotter 

Ami  longer  for  the  crust  of  cinder, 
Serving  better  the  ends  of  the  potter; 
Or  like  a  restrained  word  of  God, 
Fulfilling  itself  by  what  seems  to 
hinder. 
"  Emperor  ' 
Evermore." 


Shout  for  France  and  Savoy  ! 

Shout  for  the  helper  and  doer. 
Shout  for  the  good  sword's  ring. 

Shout  for  the  thought  still  truer. 
Shout  for  the  spirits  at  large 
Who  passed  for  the  dead  this  spring, 

Whose  living  glory  is  sure. 
Shout  for  France  and  Savoy  ! 
Shout  for  the  council  and  charge  ! 

Shout  for  the  head  of  Cavour; 
And  shout  for  the  heart  of  a  king 
That's  great  with  a  nation's  joy. 

Shout  for  France  and  Savoy  ! 


I  ^  I  ■  I  ^ 


4GG 


POEMS  BEFORE    CONGRESS. 


XI. 

Take  up  the  cliild,  Macmahon,  though 
Thy  hand  1)6  red 
From  Magenta's  dead, 
And  riding  on,  in  front  of  the  troop, 

In  the  dust  of  the  whirlwind  of  war, 
Through  the  gate  of  the  city  of  Milan, 

stoop 
And  take  up  the  child  to  thy  saddle- 
bow, 
Nor  fear  the  touch  as  soft  as  a  flower 

of  his  smile  as  clear  as  a  star. 
Thou  hast  a  right  to  the  child,  we  say, 
Since  the  women  are  weeping  for  joy 

as  they 
Who,  by  thy  help  and  from  this  daj'. 

Shall  be  happy  mothers  indeed. 
They  are  raining  flowers  from  terrace 
and  roof: 
Take  up  the  flower  in  the  child. 
While  the  shout  goes  up  of  a  nation 
freed 
And  heroically  self-reconciled. 
Till  the  snow  on  that   i^eaked    Alp 

aloof 
Starts,  as  feeling  God's  finger  anew, 
And  all  those  cold  white  marble  fires 
Of  mounting  saints  on   the  Duomo- 
spires 
Flicker  against  the  Blue. 
"  Emperor 
Evermore." 

XII. 

Ay,  it  is  he. 
Who  rides  at  the  king's  right  hand  ! 
Leave  room  to  his  horse,  and  draw  to 
the  side. 
Nor  press  too  near  iu  the  ecstasy 
Of  anewly  delivered  impassioned  land. 

He  is  moved,  you  see,  — 
He  who  has  done  it  all. 
They  call  it  a  cold,  stern  face; 

But  this  is  Italy 
Who  rises  up  to  her  place  !  — 
For  this  he  fought  in  his  youth. 
Of  this  he  dreamed  in  the  past; 
The  lines  of  the  resolute  mouth 
Tremble  a  little  at  last. 
Cry,  he  has  done  it  all ! 
"  Emperor 
Evermore." 

XIII. 

It  is  not  strange  that  he  did  it. 
Though  the  deed  may  seem  to  strain 

To  the  wonderful,  unpermitted, 
For  such  as  lead  and  reign. 


But  he  is  strange,  this  man: 

The  people's  instinct  found  him 
(A  wind  in  the  dark  that  ran 
Through  a  chink  where  was  no  door,) 
And  elected  him  and  crowned  him 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

XIV. 

Autocrat !   let  them  scoff. 

Who  fail  to  comprehend 
That  a  rviler  incarnate  of 

The  people  must  transcend 
All  common  king-born  kings. 
These  subterranean  springs 
A  sudden  outlet  winning 

Have  special  virtues  to  spend. 
The  people's  blood  runs  through  him, 

Dilates  from  head  to  foot. 

Creates  him  absolute, 
And  from  this  great  beginning 

Evokes  a  greater  end 
To  justify  and  renew  him  — 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

XV. 

What !  did  any  maintain 

That  God  or  the  people  (think  ! ) 

Could  make  a  marvel  in  vain?  — 

Out  of  the  water-jar  there 
Draw  wine  that  none  could  drink  ? 
Is  this  a  man  like  the  rest,  — 

This  mii-acle,  made  unaware 

By  a  rapture  of  popular  air, 
And    caught  to  the  place  that  was 

best  ? 
You  think  he  could  barter  and  cheat 

As  vulgar  diplomats  use, 
With  the  people's  heart  in  his  breast  ? 
Prate  a  lie  into  shape 
Lest  truth  should  cumber  the  road  ? 

Play  at  the  fast  and  loose 
Till    the    world    is    strangled    with 

tape  ? 
Maim  the  soul's  complete 

To  fit  the  hole  of  a  toad, 
And  filch  the  dogman's  meat 

To  feed  the  offsiDring  of  God  ? 

XVT. 

Nay,  but  he,  this  wonder. 

He  cannot  palter  nor  prate. 
Though  many  around  him  and  under, 
AVitli  intellects  trained  to  the  curve, 
Distrust  him  in  spirit  and  nerve 

Because  his  meaning  is  straight. 
Measure  him,  ere  he  depart, 


NAPOLEON   III.    IN    ITALY. 


467 


\ 

1 


T 


With  those  who  have  governed  and 
led,  — 
Larger  so  much  by  the  heart, 
Larger  so  much  by  the  liead. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

XVIJ. 

He  hohls   that,  consenting  or  dissi- 
dent. 
Nations  m^ist  move  with  tlie  time; 
Assumes  that  crime  with  a  i^recedent 

Doubles  the  guilt  of  the  crime; 
—  Denies  that  a  slaver's  bond, 

Or  a  treaty  signed  by  knaves, 
{Quorum  niar/im  pars  and  beyond 
Was  one  of  an  honest  name) 
Gives  an  inexpugnable  claim 
To  abolish  men  into  slaves. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 

xviir. 

Ho  will  not  swagger,  nor  boast 

Of  his  country's  meeds,  in  a  tone 
Missuiting  a  great  man  most. 

If  such  should  speak  of  his  own ; 
Nor  will  he  act  on  her  side 

From  motives  baser,  indeed. 
Than  a  man  of  a  noble  pride 

Can  avow  for  himself  at  need; 
Never,  for  lucre  or  laurels. 

Or  custom,  though  such  should  be 
rife. 
Adapting  the  smaller  morals 

To  measure  the  larger  life. 
He,  though  the  merchants  persuade, 

And  the  soldiers  are  eager  for  strife, 
Finds  not  his  country  in  quarrels 

Only  to  find  her  in  trade; 
^^'hiIe  still  he  accords  her  such  honor 

As  never  to  flinch  for  her  sake 
Where  men  j)ut  service  upon  her, 

Found  heavy  to  iindertake, 
And  scarcely  like  to  be  paid; 
Believing  a  nation  may  act 

Unselfishly,  shiver  a  lance 
(As  the  least  of  her  sons  may,  in  fact,) 

And  not  for  a  cause  of  finance. 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


< 


XIX. 


Great  is  he 
Who  uses  his  greatness  for  all. 
His  name  shall  stand  perpetually 

As  a  name  to  applaud  and  cherish, 
Not  only  within  the  civic  wall 


For  the  loyal,  but  also  without 

For  the  generous  and  free. 

Just  is  he 
Who  is  just  for  the  popular  due 

As  well  as  the  private  debt. 
The  praise  of  nations  ready  to  perish 
Fall  on  him,  —  crown  himin  view 

Of  tyi-auts  caught  in  the  net, 
And  statesmen  dizzy  with   fear  and 

doubt ! 
And  though,  because  they  are  many, 

And  he  is  merely  one. 
And  nations  selfish  and  cruel 
Heap  up  the  inquisitor's  fuel 

To  kill  the  body  of  high  intents, 
And  burn    great    deeds    from    their 

place. 
Till  this,  the  greatest  of  any. 

May  seem  imperfectly  done; 

Courage,  whoever  circumvents ! 
Courage,  courage,  whoever  is  base  ! 
The  soul  of  a  high  intent,  be  it  known, 
Can  die  no  more  than  any  soul 
Which    God    keeps    by    him    under 

the  throne; 
And  this,  at  whatever  interim. 

Shall  live,  and  be  consummated 
Into  the  being  of  deeds  made  whole. 
Covirage,  courage  !  happy  is  he 

Of  whom  (himself  among  the  dead 

And  silent),  this  word  shall  be  said: 
—  That  he  might  have  had  the  world 
with  him, 

But  chose  to    side   with    suffering 
men. 

And   had   the 
when 
He  came  to  deliver  Italy 
Emperor 
Evermore. 


world    against    him 


THE   DANCE. 


You  remember  down  at  Florence  our 

Cascine, 
Where  the  people  on  the  feast-days 

walk  and  drive. 
And  through  the  trees,  long-drawn  in 

many  a  green  way, 
O'er-rooflng  hum  and  murmur  like 

a  hive, 
The  river  and  the  mountains  look 

alive  ? 


i 

i 


468 


POEMS   BEFORE   CONGRESS. 


II. 

You  remember  the  piazzone  there,  tlie 

stand-place 
Of  carriages  a-brim  with  Florence 

lieaiities, 
Who  lean  and  melt  to  music  as  the 

band  plays, 
Or  smile  and  chat  with  some  one 

who  afoot  is. 
Or  on  horseback,  in  observance  of 

male  duties  ? 

III. 

'Tis  so  pretty,  in  the  afternoons  of 
summer, 

So  many  gracious  faces  brought  to- 
gether ! 
Call  it  rout,  or  call  it  concert,  they 
have  come  here, 

In  the  floating  of  the  fan  and  of  the 
feather, 

To  reciprocate  with  beauty  the  line 
weather. 

IV. 

While  the  flower-girls  offer  nosegays 
(because  (hey  too 
Go  with  other  sweets)  at  every  car- 
riage-door ; 
Here,   by   shake  of    a    white   finger, 
signed  away  to 
Some  next  buyer,  who  sits  buying 

score  on  score, 
Piling  roses  upon  roses  evermore. 


And  last  season,   when  the  French 
camp  had  its  station 
lu     the      meadow-ground,     things 
quickened  and  grew  gayer 
Through  the  mingling  of  the  liberat- 
ing nation 
With  this  people;  groups  of  French- 
men everywhere, 
Strolling,  gazing,  judging  lightly  — 
"  who  was  fair." 

VI. 

Then  the   noblest  lady  present  took 

upon  her 
To  speak  nobly  from  her  carriage 

for  the  rest: 
"  Pray  these  officers  from  France  to 

do  us  honor 
By  dancing  with   us  straightway." 

The  request 
AVas    gravely  apprehended    as  ad- 

drest. 


vir. 

And  the  men  of  France  bareheaded, 
bowing  lowly, 

Led  out  each  a  proud  signora  to  the 
space 
Which  the  startled  crowd  had  round- 
ed for  them  — slowh'. 

Just  a  touch  of  still  emotion  in  his 
face, 

Not  presuming,  through  the  symbol, 
on  the  grace. 

VIII. 

There  was  silence  in  the  people:  some 
lips  trembled, 
But  none  jested.     Broke  the  music 
at  a  glance; 
And   the   daughters   of    our    princes, 
thus  assembled. 
Stepped  the  measure  with  the  gal- 
lant sons  of  France, 
Hush  !  it  might  have  been  a  Mass, 
and  not  a  dance. 

IX. 

And  they  danced  there  till  the  blue 

that  overskied  us 
Swooned  with  passion,  though  the 

footing  seemed  sedate; 
And  the  mountains,  heaving  mighty 

hearts  beside  us. 
Sighed  a  rapture  in  a  shadow,  to 

dilate, 
And   touch   the    holy  stone   where 

Dante  sate. 


Then  the  sons  of  France  bareheaded, 
lowly  bowing. 

Led  the  ladies  back  where  kinsmen 
of  the  south 
Stood,  received  them;  till,  with  burst 
of  overflowing 

Feeling,  husbands,   brothers,  Flor- 
ence's male  youth, 

Turned    and    kissed     the    martial 
strangers  mouth  to  mouth. 

XI. 

And  a  cry  went  up,  —  a  cry  from  all 
that  people  ! 

—  You  have  heard  a  peojjle   cheer- 
ing, you  suppose. 
For    the    member,    mayor  .  .  .  with 
chorus  from  the  steeple  ? 

This  was  dilfei-ent,  scarce  as  loiul 
perhaps  (who  knoAvs  ?) 

For  we  saw  wet  eyes  around  us  ere 
the  close. 


"f^" 


t'  -  <{• 

[■■J  »s. 


y,. 


"  While  the  flower-girls  oflFer  nosegays 

—  at  every  carriage  door."  —  Page  468. 


I 


A    TALI-:    OF    VILLAFRANCA. 


469 


i 


And 
By 


XII. 

\vc  felt  as  if  a  nation,  too  long 

home  in 

hard  wrongers,  —  comprehend- 
ing in  such  attitude 
That    God    had    spoken     somewhere 

since  the  morning, 
That  men  were  somehow  brothers, 

by  no  platitude, 
Cried  exultant  in  great  wonder  and 

free  gratitude. 


A   TALE    OF   yiLLAFRANCA. 

TOLD  IX  TUSCANY. 


My  little  son,  my  Florentine, 

Sit  down  beside  my  knee, 
And  I  will  tell  you  why  the  sign 

Of  joy  Avhich  flushed  our  Italy 
Has  faded  since  but  yesternight. 
And  why  your  Florence  of  delight 

Is  mourning,  as  you  see. 

ij. 
A  great  man  (who  was  crowned  one 
clay) 
Imagined  a  great  deed: 
He  shajied  it  out  of  cloud  and  clay; 
He  touched  it  finely,  till  the  seed 
Possessed  the  flower;  from  heart  and 

brain 
He  fed  it  with  large  thoughts  humane, 
To  help  a  people's  need. 

HI. 

He  brought  it  out  into  the  sun: 

They  blessed  it  to  his  face: 
"  O  great  pure   deed,   that  hast  lui- 
done 

So  many  bad  and  base  ! 
O  generous  deed,  heroic  deed. 
Come  forth,  be  perfected,  succeed. 

Deliver  by  God's  grace." 

IV. 

Then  sovereigns,  statesmen,  north  and 
south, 

Hose  up  in  wrath  and  fear, 
And  cried,  protesting  by  one  mouth, 

"  What  monster  have' we  here  ? 
A  great  deed  at  this  hour  of  day  ? 
A,  great  just  deed,  and  not  for  pay  ? 

Absurd  —  or  insincere. 


"  And  if  sincere,  the  heavier  blow 
In  that  case  we  shall  bear, 

For  Where's  our  blessed  '  status  quo ' 
Our  holy  treaties,  where  ? 

Our  rights  to  sell  a  race,  or  buy. 

Protect  and  iJillage,  occupy. 
And  civilize  despair  ?  " 


VI. 

that 


the  great  deed 


Some  muttered 
meant 
A  great  pretext  to  sin ; 
And  others,  the  pretext,  so  lent, 

Was  heinous  (to  begin). 
Volcanic     terms     of     "great"     and 

"just"? 
Admit  such  tongues  of  flame,  the  crust 
Of  time  and  law  falls  in. 

VII. 

A  great  deed  in  this  world  of  ours  ? 

Unheard  of  the  pretence  is  ! 
It  threatens  plainly  the  great  Powers, 

Is  fatal  in  all  senses. 
A  just  deed  in  the  world? —  Call  out 
The  rifles  !  be  not  slack  about 

The  national  ttefeuces. 

VIII. 

And   many  murmured,   "  From  this 
source 

Wliat  red  blood  must  be  poured  !  " 
And  some  rejoined,  "  'Tis  even  worse: 

What  red  tape  is  ignored  !  " 
All  cursed  the  doer  for  an  evil 
Called  here  enlarging  on  the  Devil; 

There  monkeying  the  Lord. 

IX. 

Some  said  it  could  not  be  explained; 

Some,  could  not  be  excused; 
And  others,  "  Leave  it  unrestrained, 

Gehenna's  self  is  loosed." 
And  all  cried,  "  Crush   it,   maim  it. 

gag  it, 
Set  dog-toothed  lies  to  tear  it  ragged. 

Truncated  and  traduced  !  " 

X. 

But  He  stooil  sad  before  the  sun, 
(The  jieoples  felt  their  fate.) 

"  'The  world  is  many;  I  am  one: 
My  great  deed  was  too  great. 

God's  fruit  of  justice  ripens  slow: 

Men's  souls  are  narrow ;  let  them  grow. 
My  brothers,  we  must  wait." 


470 


POEMS  BEFORE   CONGRESS. 


XI. 

The  tale  is  ended,  child  of  mine, 
Turned  graver  at  my  knee. 

They  say  your  eyes,  my  Florentine, 
Are  English:  it  may  be; 

And  yet  I've  marked  as  blue  a  pair 

Following  the  doves  across  the  square 
At  Venice  bv  the  sea. 


xn. 

All  child  !  ah  child  1  I  cannot  say 
A  word  more.     You  conceive 

The  reason  now,  why  just  to-day 
We  see  our  Florence  grieve. 

Ah  child,  look  up  into  the  sky  ! 

In  this  low  world,  where  great  deeds 
die, 
What  matter  if  we  live  ? 


A   COURT   LADY. 


IIer  hair  was  tawny  with  gold:  her 
eyes  with  purple  were  dark ; 

Her  cheeks'  pale  opal  burnt  with  a 
red  and  restless  spark. 

II. 
Never  was  lady  of  Milan  nobler  in 

name  and  in  race; 
Never  was  lady  of  Italy  fairer  to  see 

in  the  face. 


III. 

Never  was  lady  on  earth  more  true 

as  woman  and  wife. 
Larger    in    judgment    and    instinct, 

l)rouder  in  manners  and  life. 

IV. 

She  stood  in  the  early  morning,  and 
said  to  her  maidens,  "  Bring 

That  silken  robe  made  ready  to  wear 
at  the  court  of  the  king- 


"  Bring  me  the  clasps  of  diamond, 
lucid,  clear  of  the  mote; 

Clasji  me  the  large  at  the  waist,  and 
clasp  me  the  small  at  the  throat. 


VI. 

"Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair,  and 
diamonds  to  fasten  the  sleeves, 

Laces  to  drop  from  their  raj's,  like  a 
powder  of  snow  from  the  eaves. ' ' 

VII. 

Gorgeous  she  entered  the  sunlight, 
which  gathered  her  up  in  a 
flame, 

While,  straight  in  her  open  carriage, 
she  to  the  hospital  came. 

vui. 

In  she  went  at  the  door,  and  gazing 

,   from  end  to  end, 
"Many  and  low  are  the  pallets;  but 
each  is  the  jjlace  of  a  friend." 

IX. 

Up  she  passed  through  the  wards, 
and  stood  at  a  young  man's  bed: 

Bloody  the  band  on  his  brow,  and 
Jivid  the  droop  of  his  head. 


"Art  thou  a  Lomliard,  my  brother? 

Happy  art  thou  !  "  she  cried. 
And   smiled   like   Italy   on   him:    he 

tlreamed  in  her  face  —  and  died. 

XI. 

Pale  with  his  passing  soul,  she  went 
on  still  to  a  second: 

He  was  a  grave  hard  man,  whose 
years  by  dungeons  were  reck- 
oned. 

xn. 

Wounds  in  his  hody  were  sore, 
wounds  in  his  life  were  sorer. 

"Art  thou  a  Romaguole?"  Her 
eyes  drove  lightnings  before 
her. 

XIII. 

"  Austrian  and  priest  had  joined  to 
double  and  tighten  the  cord 

Able  to  bind  thee,  O  strong  one,  free 
bj'  the  stroke  of  a  sword. 

XIV. 

"  Now  be  grave  for  the  rest  of  us, 

using  the  life  overcast 
To  ripen    our  wine    of    the    present 

(too    new)    in    glooms    of    the 

past." 


i 


A   COURT  LADY. 


471 


XV. 

Down  she  stepped  to  a  ]iallet  wliere 

lay  a  face  like  a  girl's, 
Young,  and  pathetic  with  dying,  —  a 

deep  black  hole  in  the  curls. 

XVI. 

"Art  thou  from  Tuscany,  brother? 

and    seest    thou,    dreaming    in 

pain. 
Thy    mother    stand    in    the    piazza, 

searching  the  list  of  the  slain  ?  " 

XVII. 

Kind  as  a  mother  herself,  she  touched 
his  cheeks  with  her  hands: 

"  Blessed  is  she  who  has  borne  thee, 
although  she  should  weep  as 
she  stands." 


XVIII. 


On 


she  passed  to  a  Frenchman,  his 
arm  carried  off  by  a  ball: 
Kneeling,  "  O  more  than  my  brother  ! 
how  shall  I  thank  thee  for  all  ? 

XIX. 

"  Each  of  the  heroes  around  us  has 
fought  for  his  land  and  line ; 

But  thou  hast  fought  for  a  stranger, 
in  hate  of  a  wrong  not  thine. 

XX. 

"  Happy  are  all  free  peoples,  too 
strong  to  be  dispossest ; 

But  blessed  are  those  among  nations 
who  dare  to  be  strong  for  the 
rest." 

XXI. 

Ever  she  passed  on  her  way,  and 
came  to  a  couch  where  pined 

One  with  a  face  from  Venetia,  white 
with  a  hope  out  of  mind. 

XXII. 

Long  she  stood  and  gazed,  and  twice 

she  tried  at  the  name; 
But  two  great  crystal  tears  were  all 

that  faltered  and  came. 

XXIII. 

Only  a  tear  for  Venice  ?    She  turned 

as  in  passion  and  loss. 
And    stooped    to    his    forehead    and 

kissed  it,  as  if  she  were  kissing 

the  cross. 


XXIV. 

Faint  with  that  strain  of  heart,  she 
moved  on  then  to  another. 

Stern  and  strong  in  his  death.  "  And 
dost  thou  suffer,  my  brother?  " 

XXV. 

Holding  his  hands  in  hers:   "Out  of 

the  Piedmont  lion 
Cometh  the  sweetness  of    freedom  J 

sweetest  to  live  or  to  die  on." 


XXVI. 

Holding  his  cold  rough  hands:  "  Well, 

oh,  well  have  ye  done 
In  noble,  noble  Piedmont,  who  would 

not  be  noble  alone." 


XXVII. 

Back  he  fell  vs^hile  she  spoke.  SIk 
rose  to  her  feet  with  a  spring, 

"That  was  a  Piedmontese  !  and  this 
is  the  court  of  the  King." 


AN  AUGUST  VOICE. 


'  Una  voce  augusta."  — 

MONITORE  TOSCANO. 


You'll  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

I  made  the  treaty  ujion  it. 
Just  venture  a  quiet  rebuke; 

Dair  Ongaro  write  him  a  sonnet; 
Ricasoli  gently  explain 

Some  need  of  the  constitution: 
He'll  swear  to  it  over  again. 

Providing  an  "  easy  solution." 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 


You'll  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

I  promised  the  Emperor  Francis 
To  argue  the  case  by  his  book, 

And  ask  yoix  to  meet  his  advances. 
The  ducal  cause,  we  know, 

(Whether  you  or  he  be  the  wronger,} 
Has  very  strong  points,  although 

\'"our  bayonets  there  have  stronger, 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 


I 


472 


POEMS  BEFORE    CONGRESS. 


III. 

Yoii'll  take  back  your  Graiid-rluke  ? 

He  is  not  -pwre  altogether. 
For  instance,  the  oath  which  lie  took 

(In  the  Forty-eight  rough  weather) 
He'd  "  nail  yonr  flag  to  his  mast," 

Then  .softly  scuttled  the  hoat  you 
Hoped  to  escape  in  at  last. 

And  both  by  a  "  Proprio  motu." 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

IV. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

The  scheme  meets  nothing  to  shock 
it 
In  this  smart  letter,  look, 

We  found  in  Radetsky's  pocket; 
"Where  his  Highness  in  sprightly  style 

Of  the  flower  of  his  Tuscans  wrote, 
"  These  heads  be  the  hottest  in  file; 

Pray    shoot    them    the    quickest." 
Quote, 
And  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

V. 

Y^ou'll  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 
There  are  some  things  to  object  to. 
He  cheated,  betrayed,  and  forsook. 
Then  called  in  the  foe  to  protect 
you. 
He  taxed  you  for  win-es  and  for  meats 
Tiiroughout  that  eight  years'  pas- 
time 
Of  Austria's  drum  in  your  streets. 
Of  course  j'ou  remember  the  last 
time 
You  called  back  your  Grand-duke. 

VI. 

You'll  take  back  the  Grand-duke  ? 

It  is  not  race  he  is  poor  in. 
Although  he  never  could  brook 

The  patriot  cousin  at  Turin. 
His  love  of  kin  you  discern, 

By  his  hate  of  your  flag  and  me  — 
So  decidedly  a))t  to  turn 

All  colors  at  the  sight  of  the  three. i 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

VII. 

Y''ou'll  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

'Twas  weak  that  he  tied  from  the 
Pitti; 
But  consider  how  little  he  shook 

At  thought  of  bombarding  your  city! 

1  The  Italian  tricolor,  —  red,  green,  and 

white. 


And,  balancing  that  with  this. 
The  Christian  rule  is  plain  for  us; 

...  Or  the  Holy  Father's  Swiss 
Have  shot  his  Perugians  in  vain  for 
us. 

You'll  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

VIII. 

Praj'  take  back  your  Grand-duke. 

—  I,  too,  have  suffered  jiersuasion. 
All  Europe,  raven  and  rook, 

Screeched  at  me  armed    for  your 
nation. 
Your  cause  in  my  heart  struck  spurs- 

I  swept  such  warnings  aside  for  you : 
My  very  child's  eyes,  and  hers. 

Grew  like   mj^  brother's  who   died 
for  you. 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

IX. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

My  French  fought  nolilj-  with  rea- 
son,— 
Left  manj'  a  Lomliardy  nook 

Red  as  with  wine  out  of  season. 
Little  we    grudged  what  was    done 
there, 

Paid  freely  your  ransom  of  blood: 
Our  heroes  stark  in  the  sun  there. 

We  would  not  recall  if  we  could. 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 

X. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

His  son  rode  fast  as  he  got  off 
That  day  on  the  enemj-'s  hook, 

When  I  had  an  epaulet  shot  off. 
Though  splashed  (as  I  saw  him  afar, 
no, 

Near)  by  those  ghastly  rains, 
The  mark,  when  you've  washed  hiu) 
in  Arno, 

Will  scarcely  lie  larger  than  Cain's. 
You'll  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 


XI. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand-duke? 

'Twill  be  so  simple,  quite  beautiful: 
The  shepherd  recovers  his  crook, 

...  If  vou  should  be  sheejj,  and 
dutiful. 
I  spoke  a  word  worth  chalking 

On  Milan's  wall  —  but  staj', 
Here's  Poniatowsky  talking,  — 

You'll  listen  to  liim  to-day. 
And  call  back  the  Grand-duke. 


il 

<> 
<> 

I 


1 


CHRISTMAS   GIFTS. 


473 


XII. 

You'll  take  back  your  Grand-duke  ? 

Observe,  there's  no  one  to  force  it, 
Unless  the  Madonna,  St.  Luke 

Drew  for  you,  choose  to  indorse  it. 
/  charge  you  by  great  St.  Martino, 

And  prodigies  quickened  by  wrong, 
Remember  yoiir  dead  on  Ticino; 

Be  worthy,  be  constant,  be  strong. 
—  Bah  !  —  call  back  the  Grand-diike  ! 


CHRISTMAS   GIFTS. 

Gregory  Nazianzen. 


The  Pope  on  Christmas  Day 

Sits  in  St.  Peter's  chair; 
But  the  peoples  murmur,  and  say, 

"Our  souls  are  sick  and  forlorn, 
And  who  will  show  us  where 

Is    the    stable    where    Christ  was 
born?" 


n. 

The  star  is  lost  in  the  dark; 

The  manger  is  lost  in  the  straw: 
The  Christ  cries  faintly  .  .  .  hark  !  — 

Through  bands  that  swaddle  and 
strangle  — 
But  the  Pope  in  the  chair  of  awe 

Looks  down  the  great  quadrangle. 


III. 

The  magi  kneel  at  his  foot, 

Kings  of  the  east  and  west; 
But,  instead  of  the  angels  (mute 
Is  the  "  Peace  on  earth  "  of  their 
song). 
The  peoples,  perplexed  and  opprest, 
Are    sighing,     "  How     long !    how 
long !  " 


IV. 

And,  instead  of  the  kine,  bewilder  in 
Shadow  of  aisle  and  dome, 

The  bear  who  tore  up  the  children, 
The  fox  who  burnt  up  the  corn. 

And  the  wolf  who  suckled  at  Rome 
Brothers  to  slav  and  to  scorn. 


Cardinals  left  and  right  of  him. 

Worshippers  round  and  beneath. 
The  silver  trumpets  at  sight  of  him, 

Thrill  with  a  musical  blast: 
But    the    people    say   through    their 
teeth, 
"  Trumpets  ?      we     wait     for     the 
Last !  " 

VI. 

He  sits  in  the  place  of  the  Lord, 
And  asks  for  the  gifts  of  the  time,  — 

Gold,  for  the  haft  of  a  sword, 
To  win  back  Romagna  averse, 

Incense  to  sweeten  a  crime, 
And  myrrh  to  imbitter  a  curse. 

VII. 

Then  a  king  of  the  west  said,  "  Good  I 
I  bring  thee  the  gifts  of  the  time,  — 
Red,  for  the  patriot's  blood; 

Green,  for  the  martyr's  crown; 
"White  for  the  dew  and  the  rime. 
When  the  morning  of  God  comes 
down." 

vni. 

—  O  mystic  tricolor  bright ! 

The    Pope's    heart    quailed   like  a 
man's: 
The  cardinals  froze  at  the  sight. 

Bowing  their  tonsures  hoary; 
And  the  eyes  in  the  peacock-fans 

Winked  at  the  alien  glory. 

IX. 

But  the  peoples  exclaimed  in  hope, 
"  Now    blessed     be    he    who    has 
brought 
These  gifts  of  the  time  to  the  Pope, 
When  our  souls  were  sick  and  for- 
lorn; 

—  And  here  is  the  star  we  sought. 

To    show    us    where     Christ    was 
born  !  " 


ITALY  AND   THE   WORLD. 


Florence,  Bologna,  Parma,  Modena, 
When  you  named  them  a  year  ago. 

So  many  graves  reserved  by  God,  in  a 
Day  of  Judgment,  you  seemed  to 
know, 

To  open  and  let  out  the  resurrection. 


h 


474 


POEMS  BEFORE   CONGRESS. 


II. 

And  meantime  (you  made  yonr  reflec- 
tion, 
If  you  were  Englisli)  was  nought  to 
be  done 
But  sorting  sables,  in  predilection 

For  all  those  martyrs  dead  and  gone, 
Till  the  new  earth  and  heaven  made 
ready. 

III. 

And  if  your  politics  were  not  heady, 
Violent  .  .  .  "Good,"   you    added, 
"  good 
In   all  things  !    mourn  on  sure   and 
steady. 
Churchyard  thistles  are  wholesome 
food 
For  our  European  wandering  asses. 

IV. 

"  The  date  of  the  resurrection  passes 
Human    foreknowledge:    men    un- 
born 
Will  gain  by  it  (even  in  the  lower 
classes) ; 
But  none  of  these.    It  is  not  the 
morn 
Because  the  cock  of  France  is  crow- 
ing. 

V. 

"  Cocks    crow    at    midnight,    seldom 
knowing 
Starlight  from  dawn-light.     'Tis  a 
mad 
Poor  creature."    Here    you    paused, 
and  growing 
Scornful,  suddenly,  let  us  add. 
The    trumpet    sounded,    the    graves 
were  open. 

VI. 

Life  and  life  and  life  !  agrope  in 
The  dusk  of    death,   warm    hands 
stretched  out 
For  swords,  proved  more  life  still  to 
hope  in, 
Beyond  and  behind.     Arise  with  a 
shout. 
Nation  of  Italy,  slain  and  buried  ! 

vu. 
Hill  to  hill,  and  turret  to  turret. 
Flashing  the  tricolor,  —  newly  cre- 
ated 
Beautiful  Italy,  calm,  unhurried, 

Rise  heroic  and  renovated, 
Rise  to  the  final  restitution. 


VIII. 

Rise ;  prefigure  the  grand  solution 
Of      earth's      municipal,      insular 
schisms. 
Statesmen  draping  self-love's  conclu- 
sion 
In  cheap  vernacular  patriotisms. 
Unable  to  give  up  Judfea  for  Jesus. 

IX. 

Bring  us  the  higher  example;  release 
us 
Into  the  larger  coming  time; 
And    into    Christ's    broad    garment 
piece  us 
Rags  of  virtue  as  poor  as  crime, 
National  selfishness,  civic  vaunting. 

X. 

No  more  Jew  nor  Greek  then,  taunt- 
ing 
Nor  taunted;  no  more  England  nor 
France ! 
But    one     confederate     brotherhood 
planting 
One  flag  only  to  mark  the  advance. 
Onward  and  upward,  of  all  humanity 

XI. 

For  civilization  perfected 

Is  fully  developed  Christianity. 
"Measure  the  frontier,"   shall  it  be 
said, 
"  Count    the    ships,"    in    national 
vanity  ? 
—  Count     the     nation's     heart-beats 
sooner. 

XII. 

For,  though  behind  by  a  cannon   or 
schooner. 
That  nation  still  is  predominant. 
Whose  pulse  beats  quickest  in  zeal  to 
oppugn  or 
Succor  another,  in  wrong  or  want, 
Passing  the  frontier  in  love  and  ab- 
horrence. 

xui. 

Modena,  Parma,  Bologna,  Florence, 

Open  us  out  the  wider  way  ! 
Dwarf  in  that  chapel  of  old  St.  Law- 
rence 
Your  Michel  Angelo's  giant  Day, 
With  the  grandeur  of  this  Day  break- 
ing o'er  us  ! 


I     ^  I  ■  I  1^ 


ITALY  AND   THE    WORLD. 


475 


XIV. 

Ye    who,    restrained    as    an    ancient 
chorus, 

Mute  while  the  coryphfeus  spake, 
Hush  your  separate  voices  before  us, 

Sink  your  separate  lives  for  the  sake 
Of  one  sole  Italy's  living  forever  ! 

XV. 

Givers  of  coat  and  cloak  too,  —  never 
Grudging  that  purple  of  yours  at 
the  best,  — 
By  your  heroic  will  and  endeavor 

Each  sublimely  dispossest, 
That  all  may  inherit  what  each  sur- 
renders ! 

xvi. 

Earth  shall  bless  you,  O  noble  emend- 
ers 
On  egotist  nations  !    Ye  shall  lead 
The  plough  of  the  world,  and  sow 
new  splendors 
Into  the  furrow  of  things  for  seed, 
Ever  the  richer  for   what    ye    have 
given. 

XVII. 

Lead  us  and  teach  us,  till  earth  and 
heaven 
Grow  larger  around  us,  and  higher 
above. 
Our  sacrament    bread    has    a    bitter 
leaven; 
We  bait  our  traps  with  the  name  of 
love. 
Till  hate  itself  has  a  kinder  meaning. 

XVIIl. 

Oh,   this   world:    this    cheating,   and 
screening 
Of  cheats  !  this  conscience  for  can- 
dle-wicks, 
Not  beacon-fires  !  this  over-weening 
Of  underhand  diplomatical  tricks. 
Dared  for  the  country  while  scorned 
for  the  counter ! 

XIX. 

Oh,  this  envy  of  those   who  mount 
here, 
And  oh,  this  malice  to  make  them 
trip ! 
Rather  quenching  the  Are  there,  diy- 
ing  the  fount  here,  , 

To  frozen  body  and  thirsty  lip, 
Than  leave  to  a  neighbor  their  minis- 
tration. 


XX. 

I  cry  aloud  in  my  poet-passion, 
Viewing  my  England  o'er  Alp  and 
sea. 
I  loved  her  more  in  her  ancient  fash- 
ion: 
She  carries  her  rifles  too  thick  for 
me, 
Who  spares  them  so  in  the  cause  of  a 
brother. 

XXI. 

Suspicion,  jianic  ?  end  this  pother. 
The  sword  kept  sheathless  at  peace- 
time rusts. 
None  fears  for  himself  while  he  feels 
for  another: 
The    brave    man    either    fights    or 
trusts, 
And  wears  no  mail   in    his    private 
chamber. 

XXII. 

Beautiful  Italy  !  golden  amber 
Warm  with  the  kisses  of  lover  and 
traitor  ! 
Thou  who  hast   drawn   us  on  to  re- 
member. 
Draw  us  to  hope  now:   let  us   be 
greater 
By  this    new  future   than    that    old 
story, 

XXIII. 

Till  truer  glory  replaces  all  glory. 
As  the  torch  grows  blind   at    the 
dawn  of  day; 
And    the    nations,    rising    up,    their 
sorry 
And  foolish  sins  shall  put  away, 
As    children    their    toys    when    the 
teacher  enters. 

XXIV. 

Till  Love's  one  centre  devour  these 
centres 
Of  many  self-loves;   and  the  patri- 
ot's trick 

To    better  his   land   by  egotist  ven- 
tures, 
Defamed  from  a  virtue,  shall  make 
men  sick. 

As  the  scalp  at  the  belt  of  some  red 
hero. 

XXV. 

For  certain  virtues  have  dropped  to 
zero, 
Left  by  the  sun  on  the  mountain's 
dewv  side; 


I 


476 


POEMS  BEFORE   CONGRESS. 


Churchmau's     charities,     tender     as 

Nero, 
Indian  suttee,  heathen  suicide, 
Service  to  rights  divine  proved  hol- 

lovr: 

XXVI. 

And  Heptarchy  patriotisms  must  fol- 
low. 
—  National  voices,  distinct  yet  de- 
pendent. 

Ensphering  each  other,   as   swallow- 
does  swallow, 
With    circles    still    widening    and 
ever  ascendent. 

In  multiform  life  to  united  progres- 
sion,— 

XXVII. 

These  shall  remain.    And  when    in 
the  session 
Of  nations,  the  separate  language  is 
heard, 
Each  shall  aspire,  in  sublime  indis- 
cretion, ' 
To  help  with  a  thought    or  exalt 
with  a  word 
Less  her  own  than  her  rival's  honor. 

XXVIII. 

Each  Christian  nation  shall  take  upon 

her 
The  law  of  the  Christian  man  in 

vast: 
The  crown  of  the  getter  shall  fall  to 

the  donor. 
And  last  shall  be  first  while  first 

shall  be  last, 
And  to  love  best  shall  still  be  to  reign 

unsurpassed. 


A   CURSE   FOR  A  NATION. 

PKOLOGUE. 

I  HEAKD  an  angel  speak  last  night, 

And  he  said,  "  Write  !  — 
Write  a  nation's  curse  for  me. 
And  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea." 

I  faltered,  taking  up  the  word: 

"  Not  so,  my  lord  ! 
If  curses  must  be,  choose  another 
To  send  thy  curse  against  my  brother, 


"  For  I  am  bound  by  gratitude. 

By  love  and  blood. 
To  brothers  of  mine  across  the  sea, 
Who  stretch  out  kindly  hands  to  me." 

"  Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "  shalt 

thou  write 
My  curse  to-night. 
From  the  summits  of  love  a  curse  is 

driven, 
As    lightning    is    from    the    tops    of 

heaven." 

"  Not  so,"  I  answered.     "  Evermore 

My  heart  is  sore 
For  my  own  land's   sins:    for  little 

feet 
Of  children  bleeding  along  the  street: 

"  For  parked-up  honors  that  gainsay 

The  right  of  way : 
For  almsgiving  through  a  door  that  is 
Not  open  enough   for  two  friends  to 
kiss: 

"  For  love  of  freedom  which  abates 

Beyond  the  Straits: 
For  patriot  virtue  starved  to  vice  on 
Self-praise,    self-interest,   and    suspi- 
cion: 

"  For  an  oligarchic  parliament, 
And  bribes  well-meant. 
What  curse  to  another  land  assign, 
When    heavy-sou  led  for  the  sins  of 


mine 


9" 


"  Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "  shalt 

thou  write 
My  curse  to-night. 
Because  thou  hast  strength  to  see  and 

hate 
A  foul  thing  done  loithin  thy  gate." 

"  Not  so,"  I  answered  once  again. 

"  To  curse  choose  men. 
For  I,  a  woman,  have  only  known 
How  the  heart  melts,  and  the  tears 
run  down." 

"  Therefore,"  the  voice  said,  "  shalt 
thou  write 
My  curse  to-night. 
Some  women  weep  and  curse,  I  say, 
(And  no  one  marvels)  night  and  day. 

"  And  thou  shalt  take  their  jjart  to- 
night, 
Weep  and  write. 


A    CURSE  FOR  A   NATION. 


A  curse  from  the  depths  of  woman- 
hood 
Is  very  salt,  and  bitter,  and  good." 

So  thus  I  wrote,  and  mourned  indeed, 

What  all  may  read. 
And  thus  as  was  enjoined  on  me, 
I  send  it  over  the  Western  Sea. 


THE  CURSE. 


Because   ye  have  broken  your  own 
chain 
With  the  strain 
Of    brave    men    climbing   a  nation's 

height. 
Yet  thence  bear  down  with  brand  and 

thong 
On  souls  of  others,  —  for  this  wrong 
This  is  the  curse.    Write. 

Because     yourselves     are      standing 
straight 
In  the  state 
Of  Freedom's  foremost  acolyte, 
Yet  keep  calm  footing  all  the  time 
On  writhing    bond-slaves,  —  for    this 
crime 
This  is  the  curse.    Write. 

Because  ye  prosper  in  God's  name, 

With  a  claim 
To  honor  in  the  old  world's  sight. 
Yet  do  the  fiend's  work  perfectly 
In  strangling  martyrs,  —  for  this  lie 

"This  is  the  curse.    Write. 

II. 

Ye  shall  watch  while  kings  conspire 
Round  the  people's  smouldering  fire. 

And,  warm  for  your  part. 
Shall  never  dare  —  O  shame  ! 
To  utter  the  thought  into  flame 

Which  burns  at  your  heart. 

This  is  the  curse.    Write. 

Ye  shall  watch  while  nations  strive 
With  the  bloodhounds,  die  or  survive, 
Drop  faint  from  their  jaws, 


Or  throttle  them  backward  to  death ; 
And  only  under  your  breath 
Shall  favor  the  cause. 

This  is  the  curse.    Write. 

Ye    shall    watch    while    strong    men 

draw 
The  nets  of  feudal  law 

To  strangle  the  weak; 
And,  counting  the  sin  for  a  sin, 
Your  soul  shall  be  sadder  within 
Thau  the  word  ye  shall  speak. 
This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

When  good  men  are  praying  erect 
That  Christ  may  avenge  his  elect. 

And  deliver  the  earth. 
The  prayer  in  your  ears,  said  low, 
Shall  sound  like  the  tramp  of  a  foe 

That's  driving  you  forth. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

When    wise     men     give    you    their 

praise. 
They  shall  pause  in  the  heat  of  the 
phrase. 
As  if  carried  too  far. 
When  ye  boast  your    own    charters 

kept  true. 
Ye  shall  blush;  for  the  thing  which  ye 
do 
Derides  what  ye  are. 

This  is  the  curse.    Write. 

When  fools  cast  taunts  at  your  gate. 
Your  scorn  ye  shall  somewhat  abate 

As  ye  look  o'er  the  wall: 
For  your  conscience,   tradition,  and 

name 
Explode  with  a  deadlier  blame 
Than  the  worst  of  them  all. 

This  is  the  curse.     Write. 

Go,     wherever    ill    deeds    shall     be 

done, 
Go,  i^lant  your  flag  in  the  sun 

Beside  the  ill-doers  ! 
And  recoil  from  clenching  the  curse 
Of  God's  witnessing  Universe 
With  a  curse  of  yours. 

This  is  the  curse.    Write. 


LAST  POEMS. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


A  few 


These  poems  are  given  as  they  occur  on  a  list  drawn  up  last  June. 
had  already  been  printed  in  periodicals. 

There  is  hardly  such  direct  warrant  for  publishing  the  translations,  which 
were  only  intended,  many  years  ago,  to  accompany  and  explain  certain 
engravings  after  ancient  gems,  in  the  projected  work  of  a  friend,  by  whose 
kindness  they  are  now  recovered;  but,  as  two  of  the  original  series  (the 
"Adonis"  of  Bion,  and  "Song  to  the  Rose,"  from  Achilles  Tatius)  have 
subsequently  appeared,  it  is  presumed  that  the  remainder  may  not  improp- 
erly follow. 

A  single  recent  version  is  added. 

London,  February,  1862. 


LITTLE   MATTIE 


I. 
Dead  !     Thirteen  a  month  ago  ! 

Short  and  narrow  her  life's  walk* 
Lover's  love  she  could  not  know 

Even  by  a  dream  or  talk : 
Too  young  to  be  glad  of  youth. 

Missing  honor,  labor,  rest. 
And  the  warmth  of  a  babe's  mouth 

At  the  blossom  of  her  breast. 
]\Iust  you  pity  her  for  this 
And  for  all  the  loss  it  is. 
You,  her  mother,  with  wet  face, 
Having  had  all  in  your  case  " 

II. 

Just  so  young  but  yesternight, 

Now  she  is  old  as  death. 
Meek,  obedient  in  your  sight. 

Gentle  to  a  beck  or  breath 
Only  on  last  Monday  !    Yours, 

Answering  you  lilie  silver  bells 
Lightly  touched  !    An  hour  matures: 

You  can  teach  her  nothing  else. 
She  has  seen  the  mystery  hid 
Under  Egypt's  pyramid: 
By  those  eyelids  pale  and  close 
Now  she  knows  what  Rhamses  knows. 

478 


III. 
Cross  her  quiet  hands,  and  smooth 

Down  her  patient  locks  of  silk. 
Cold  and  passive  as  in  truth 

You  your  fingers  in  spilt  milk 
Drew  along  a  marble  floor; 

But  her  lips  you  cannot  wring 
Into  saying  a  word  more, 

"  Yes,"  or  "  No,"  or  such  a  thing: 
Though  you  call  and  beg  and  wreak 
Half  your  soul  out  in  a  shriek, 
She  will  lie  there  in  default 
And  most  innocent  revolt. 

IV. 

Ay,  and  if  she  spoke,  may  be 
She  would  answer  like  the  Son, 

"  What  is  now  'twixt  thee  and  me  ?  '' 
Dreadful  answer  !  better  none. 

Yours  on  Monday,  God's  to-day  ! 
Y'ours,  your  child,  your  blood,  your 

Called  .  .  .'  you  called  her,  did  you 
say, 
"  Little  Mattie  "  for  your  part  ? 
Now  already  it  sounds  strange. 
And  you  wonder,  in  this  change, 
What  He  calls  his  angel-creature. 
Higher  up  than  you  can  reach  her. 


i 


VOID  IN  LAW. 


479 


'Twas  a  green  and  easy  world 

As  she  took  it;  room  to  play, 
(Though  one's  hair  might  get  uncurled 

At  the  far  end  of  the  day). 
What  she  suffered  she  shook  off 

In  the  sunshine:  what  she  sinned 
She  could  pray  on  high  enough 

To  keep  safe  above  the  wind. 
If  reproved  by  God  or  you, 
'Twas  to  l)etter  her,  she  knew; 
And,  if  crossed,  she  gathered  still 
'Twas  to  cross  out  something  ill. 

VI. 

You,  you  had  the  right,  you  thought, 

To  survey  her  with  sweet  scorn, 
Poor  gay  child,  who  had  not  caught 

Yet  the  octave-stretch  forlorn 
Of  your  larger  wisdom  !     Nay, 

Now  your  places  are  changed  so. 
In  that'same  superior  way 

She  regards  you  dull  and  low 
As  you  did  herself  exempt 
From  life's  sorrows.     Grand  contempt 
Of  the  spirits  risen  a  while. 
Who  look  back  with  such  a  smile  ' 

VII. 

There's  the  sting  oft.    That,  I  think. 

Hurts  the  most  a  thousand-fold  ! 
To  feel  sudden,  at  a  wink. 

Some  dear  child  we  used  to  scold, 
Praise,  love  both  ways,  kiss  and  tease, 

Teach,  and  tumble  as  our  own 
All  its  curls  about  our  knees. 

Rise  up  suddenly  full-grown. 
AYho  could  wonder  such  a  sight 
Made  a  woman  mad  outright  ? 
Show  me  Michael  with  the  sword 
Rather  than  such  angels,  Lord  ? 


A   FALSE   STEP. 


Sweet,  thou  hast  trod  on  a  heart. 

Pass;  there's  a  world  full  of  men; 
And  women  as  fair  as  thou  art 

Must  do  such  things  now  and  then. 

II. 

Thou  only  hast  stepped  unaware ; 
Malice,  not  one  can  impute ; 


And  why  should  a  heart  have  been 
there, 
In  the  way  of  a  fair  woman's  foot  ? 


III. 

It  was  not  a  stone  that  could  trip, 
Nor  was  it  a  thorn  that  could  rend: 

Put  up  thy  proud  underlii^ ! 
'Twas  merely  the  heart  of  a  friend. 

IV. 

And  yet,  peradventure,  one  day 
Thou,  sitting  alone  at  the  glass. 

Remarking  the  bloom  gone  away, 
Where  the  smile  in  its  dimplement 
v,'as, 

V. 


be^ 


And  seeking  around  thee  in  vain. 
From  hundreds  who  flattered 
fore, 

Such  a  word  as,  "  Oh,  not  in  the  main 
Do  I  hold  thee  less   precious,  but 


more 


I  " 


VI. 


Thou'lt  sigh,  very  like,  on  thy  part, 
"  Of  all  I  have  known  or  can  know, 

I  wish  I  had  only  that  heart 
I  trod  upon  ages  ago  !  " 


VOID   IN   LAW 


Sleep,  little  babe,  on  my  knee. 

Sleep,  for  the  midnight  is  chill, 
And  the  moon  has  dietl  out  in  the 
tree. 
And  the  great  human  world  goeth 
ill. 
Sleep,  for  the  wicked  agree : 

Sleep,  let  them  do  as  they  will. 
Sleep. 

II. 

Sleep,    thou    hast    drawn    from   my 
breast 
The  last  drop  of  milk  that  was  good. 
And  now,  in  a  dream,  suck  the  rest. 
Lest  the  real   should    trouble    thy 
blood. 
Suck,  little  lips  dispossest, 
As  we   kiss  iu  the  air  whom  wc 
would. 
Sleep. 


480 


LAST  POEMS. 


III. 

0  lips  of  thy  father  !  the  same, 

So  like!     Very  deeply  they  swore 
When   he  gave  me  his  ring  and  his 
name, 
To  take  back,  I  imagined,  no  more  ! 
And  now  is  all  changed  like  a  game, 
Though  the  old  cards  are  used  as  of 
yore  ? 
Sleep. 

ir. 

"Void     in    law,"    said    the    courts. 
Something  wrong 
In  the  forms  ?    Yet,  "  till  death  part 
us  two, 

1  James    take     thee     Jessie,"   was 

strong, 
And  One  witness  competent.    True 
Such  a  marriage  was  worth  an  old 
song, 
Heard  in  heaven,  though,  as  plain 
as  the  New. 
Sleep. 


Sleep,  little  child,  his  and  mine  ! 

Her  throat  has  the  antelope  curve, 
And  her  cheek  just  the  color  and  line 
Which     fade    not    before    him    nor 

swerve; 
Yet  she  has  no  child  !   the  divine 
Seal  of  right  upon  loves  that  de- 
serve. 
Sleep. 

VI. 

My  child  !  though  the  world  take  her 

part. 
Saying,    "  She    was    the    woman    to 

choose, 
He  had  eyes,  was  a  man  in  his  heart," 

We  twain  the  decision  refuse; 
We  .  .  .  weak  as  I  am,  as  thou  art. 

Cling  on  to  him,  never  to  loose. 
Sleep. 

VII. 

He  thinks,  that,  when  done  with  this 
place, 
All's  ended  ?    he'll  new-stamp  the 
ore  ? 
Yes,  Cfesar's  —  but  not  in  our  case. 

Let  him  learn  we  are  waiting  before 
The  grave's  mouth,  the  heaven's  gate, 
God's  face. 
With  imj)lacable  love  evermore. 
Sleep. 


VIII. 

He's  ours,  though  he  kissed  her  but 
now; 
He's  ours,  though  she  kissed  in  re- 
ply; 
He's  ours,  though  himself  disavow. 

And  God's  universe  favor  the  lie, — 
Ours  to  claim,  ours  to  clasp,  ours  be- 
low. 
Ours  above,  ...  if  we  live,  if  we 
die. 
Sleep. 

IX. 

Ah,  baby,  my  baby,  too  rough 
Is  my  lullaby  ?    What  have  I  said  ? 

Sleep  !     When  I've  wept  long  enough 
I  shall  learn  to  weep  softly  instead. 

And  piece  with  some  alien  stuff 
My  heart  to  lie  smooth  for  thy  head. 

Sleep. 

X. 

Two  souls  met  upon  thee,  my  sweet; 

Two  loves  led  thee  out  to  the  sun: 
Alas,  pretty  hands,  pretty  feet. 

If  the  one  who  remains  (only  one) 
Set  her  grief  at  thee,  turned  in  a  heat 

To  thine  enemy —  were  it  well  done  ? 
Sleep. 

XI. 

May  He  of  the  manger  stand  near 
And  love  thee  !    An  infant  he  came 

To  his  own  who  rejected  him  here. 
But  the  Magi  brought  gifts  all  the 
same. 

/  hurry  the  cross  on  my  dear  ! 
My  gifts  are  the  griefs  I  declaim  ! 

Sleep. 


LORD   WALTER'S   WIFE. 


"  But  why  do  you  go  ?  "    said  the 

lady,  while  both  sate  under  the 

yew. 
And    her  eyes  were    alive    in    their 

depth,   as  the  kraken  beneath 

the  sea-blue. 

II. 

"Because  I  fear  you,"  he  answered; 

"  because  you  are  far  too  fair. 
And  able  to  strangle  my  soul  in  a 

mesh  of  your  gold-colored  hair." 


I     ^  I  ■  I  1^ 


LORD    WALTERS    WIFE. 


481 


III. 


XI. 


"  Oh,  that,"  she  said,  "  is  no  reason. 

Such  knots  are  quickly  undone, 
And  too  much  beauty,  I  reckon,  is 

nothing  but  too  much  sun." 


IV. 

"Yet  farewell  so,"  he  answered: 
"  the  sun-stroke's  fatal  at  times. 

I  value  your  husband,  Lord  Walter, 
whose  gallop  rings  still  from 
the  limes." 

V. 

"Oh,  that,"  she  said,  "is  no  reason. 

You   smell   a   rose   through    a 

fence : 
If  two  should  smell  it,  what  matter? 

who  grumbles  ?  and  where's  the 

pretence  ?" 

VI. 

"  But  I,"  he  replied,  "have  promised 
another,  when  love  was  free. 

To  love  her  alone,  alone,  who  alone 
and  afar  loves  me." 

vii. 

"  Why,  that,"  she  said,  "  is  no  reason. 

Love's  always  free,  I  am  told. 
Will  you  vow  to  be  safe  from  the 

headache     on     Tuesday,     and 

think  it  will  hold  ?  " 

VIII. 

"But    you,"    he    replied,    "have    a 

daughter,  a  young  little  child, 

who  was  laid 
In  your  lap  to  be  pure;   so  I  leave 

you:    the    angels  would    make 

me  afraid." 

IX. 

"Oh,  that,"  she  said,  "is  no  reason. 
•The  angels  keep  out  of  the  way; 

And  Dora,  the  child,  observes  noth- 
ing, although  you  should  please 
me  and  stay." 


At  which  he  rose   up  in  his   anger. 

"  Why,  now  you  no  longer  are 

fair ! 
Why,  now  you  no  longer  are  fatal, 

but  ugly  and  hateful,  I  swear." 


At 


which  she    laughed    out    in    her 
scorn:  "These  men!   oh,  these 
men  overnice. 
Who  are  shocked  if  a  color  not  virtu- 
ous is  frankly  put  on  by  a  vice." 

XII. 

Her  eyes  blazed  upon  him:    "And 

you !    You  bring  us  your  vices 

so  near 
That  we  smell  them  !    You  think  in 

our  presence  a  thought  'twould 

defame  us  to  hear  ! 

xui. 

"  What  reason  had  you,  and  what 
right,  —  I  appeal  to  your  soul 
from  my  life,  — 

To  find  me  too  fair  as  a  woman? 
Why,  sir,  I  am  pure,  and  a  wife. 

XIV. 

"  Is    the  day  star  too  fair  up  above 

you  ?    It  burns  you  not.    Dare 

you  imply 
I   brushed  you  more  close  than  the 

star  does,  when  Walter  had  set 

me  as  high  ? 

XV, 

"  If  a  man  finds  a  woman  too  fair,  he 
means  simply  adapted  too  much 

To  uses  unlawful  and  fatal.  The 
praise!  —  shall  I  thank  you  for 
such? 

XVI. 

"Too  fair?    Not  unless  you  misuse 

us  ?    and   surely,  if  once  in  a 

while 
You  attain  to  it,  straightway  you  call 

us  no  longer  too  fair,  but  too 

vile. 

XVII. 

"  A  moment,  —  I  pray  your  attention  ! 

—  I  have  a  poor  word  in  my 

head 
I  must  utter,  though  womanly  custom 

would  set  it  down  better  un- 
said. 

xvni. 
"  You  grew,  sir,  pale  to  impertinence, 

once  when  I  showed  you  a  ring. 
You  kissed  my  fan  when  I  dropped 

it.    No   matter  !  —  I've   broken 

the  thing. 


LAST  POEMS. 


XIX. 

"  You  did  me  the  honor,  perhaps,  to 

be  moved  at  my  side  now  and 

then 
In  the  senses,  —  a  vice,  I  have  heard, 

which  is  common  to  beasts  and 

some  men. 

XX. 

"  Love's  a  virtue  for  heroes  !  —  as 
white  as  the  snow  on  high  hills. 

And  immortal,  as  every  great  soul  is 
that  struggles,  endures,  and  ful- 
fils. 


XXI. 


I 


love  my  "Walter  profoundly,  — 
you,  Maude,  though  you  faltered 
a  week. 
For  the  sake  of  .  .  .  what  was  it  ?  an 
eyebrow?  or,  less  still,  a  mole 
on  a  cheek  ? 

XXII. 

"  And  since,  when  all's  said,  you're 
too  noble  to  stoop  to  the  frivo- 
lous cant 

About  crimes  irresistible,  virtues  that 
swindle,  betray,  and  supplant, 

xxni. 

"  I  determined  to  prove  to  yourself, 
that,  whate'er  you  might  dream 
or  avow 

By  illusion,  you  wanted  precisely  no 
more  of  me  than  you  have  now. 

xxrv. 

"  There  !    Look  me  full  in  the  face  ! 

—  in   the  face.    Understand,  if 

you  can, 
That  the  eyes  of  such  women  as  I  am 

are  clean  as  the  palm  of  a  man. 

XXV. 

"  Drop    his    hand,    you    insult    him. 

Avoid    us  for  fear  we    should 

cost  you  a  scar  — 
You  take  us  for  harlots,  I  tell  you, 

and  not  for  the  women  we  are. 

XXVI. 

"You  wronged  me;  but  then  I  con- 
sidered .  .  .  there's  "Walter ! 
And  so  at  the  end. 


I  vowed  that  he  should  not  be 
mulcted  by  me  in  the  hand  of 
a  friend. 

XXVII. 

"Have  I  hurt  you  indeed?    "We  are 

quits,  then.    Nay,  friend  of  my 

Walter,  be  mine  ! 
Come  Dora,  my  darling,  my  angel, 

and    help    me    to    ask    him  to 

dine." 


BIANCA    AMONG    THE 
NIGHTINGALES. 


The  cypress  stood  up  like  a  church 
That  night  we  felt  our  love  would 
hold, 
And    saintly    moonlight    seemed    to 
search 
And  wash  the  whole  world  clean  as 
gold; 
The  olives  crystallized  the  vales' 
Broad  slopes  until  the  hills  grew 
strong; 
The  fireflies  and  the  nightingales 
Throbbed  each  to  either,  flame  and 
song. 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales. 

II. 

Upon  the  angle  of  its  shade 
The    cypress    stood,    self-balanced 
high; 
Half  up,  half  down,  as  double-made. 
Along  the  ground,  against  the  sky. 
And  we,  too !   from  such  soul-height 
went 
Such    leaps    of    blood,    so    blindly 
driven, 
"We  scarce  knew  if  our  nature  meant 
Most  passionate   earth   or    intense 
heaven. 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales. 

III. 
We  i^aled  with  love,  we  shook  with 
love. 
We  kissed  so  close  we  could  not 
vow; 
Till  Giulio  whispered,  "  Sweet,  above 
God's  Ever  guarantees  this  Now." 


i 


BIANCA   AMONG    THE   NIGHTINGALES. 


483 


And  through  his  words  the  nightin- 
gales 
Drove  straight  and  full  their  long, 
clear  call, 
Like  arrows  through  heroic  mails, 

And  love  was  awful  in  it  all. 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales. 

IV. 

O  cold,  white  moonlight  of  the  north, 
Refresh   these  pulses,  quench  this 
hell! 
O  coverture  of  death  drawn  forth 
Across     this     garden-chamber  .  . 
well ! 
But  what  have  nightingales  to  do 
In    gloomy    England,    called    the 
free  .  .  . 
(Yes,  free  to  die  in  !  .  .  .)  when  we 
two 
Are  sundered,  singing  still  to  me  ? 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 


I  think  I  hear  him,  how  he  cried 
"  My  own  soul's  life  "  between  their 
notes. 
Each  man  has  but  one  soul  supplied. 
And  that's  immortal.    Though  his 
throat's 
On  fire  with  jiassion  now,  to  her 

He  can't  say  what  to  me  he  said  ! 
And  yet  he  moves  her,  they  aver. 
The  nightingales  sing  through   my 
head. 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales. 

VI. 

He  says  to  her  what  moves  her  most. 
He  would  not  name  his  soul  with- 
in 
Her  hearing;  rather  pays  her  cost 

With  praises  to  her  lips  and  chin. 
Man  has  but  one  soul,  'tis  ordained. 
And  each  soul  but  one  love,  I  add; 
Yet  souls  are  damned,  and  love's  pro- 
faned. 
These    nightingales    will    sing    me 
mad ! 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales. 

VII. 

I  marvel  how  the  birds  can  sing. 

There's    little    difference,   in    their 
.view, 
Betwixt  our  Tuscan  trees  that  spring 

As  vital  flames  into  the  blue, 


And  dull,  round  blots  of  foliage  meant 
Like  saturated  sjionges  here 

To  suck  the  fogs  up.    As  content 
Is  he,  too,  in  this  land,  tis  clear. 

And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

VIII. 

My  native  Florence  !  dear,  foregone  ! 

I  see  across  the  Alpine  ridge 
How  the  last  feast-day  of  St.  John 

Shot  rockets  from  Carraia  bridge. 
The  luminous  city,  tall  with  fire. 

Trod  deep  down  in  that  river  of  ours, 
"While  many  a  boat  with   lamp  ami 
choir 

Skimmed    birdlike    over  glittering 
towers. 
I  will  not  hear  these  nightingales. 

IX. 

I  seem  to  float,  we  seem  to  float, 
Down    Arno's    stream    in    festive 
guise; 
A  boat  strikes  flame  into  our  boat. 

And  up  that  lady  seems  to  rise 
As  then  she  rose.    The  shock    had 
flashed 
A  vision  on  us  !    What  a  head  ! 
What     leaping      eyeballs  !  —  beauty 
dashed 
To  splendor  by  a  sudden  dread. 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

X. 

Too  bold  to  sin,  too  weak  to  die: 

Such  women  are  so.    As  for  me, 
I  would  we  had  drowned  there,  he 
and  I, 

That  moment,  loving  jierfectly. 
He  had  not  caught  her  with  her  loosed 

Gold     ringlets  .  .  .  rarer     in    the 
south  .  .  . 
Nor  heard  the  "  Grazie  tan  to  "  bruised 

To  sweetness  by  her  English  mouth. 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 

XI. 

She  had  not  reached  him  at  my  heart 

With  her  fine  tongue,  as  snakes  in- 
deed 
Kill  flies;  nor  had  I,  fur  my  ])art, 

Yearned    after,    in    my   desperate 
need. 
And  followed  him,  as  he  did  her. 

To  coasts  left  bitter  by  the  tide, 
Whose  very  nightingales,  elsewhere 

Delighting,  torture  and  deride  ! 
For  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 


484 


LAST  POEMS. 


XII. 

A  worthless  woman,  mere  cold  clay, 

As  all  false  things  are;  but  so  fair, 
She  takes  the  breath  of  men  away 

Who  gaze  upon  her  unaware. 
I  would  not  play  her  larcenous  tricks 

To  have  her  looks  I     She  lied  and 
stole, 
And  spat  into  my  love's  pure  pyx 

The  rank  saliva  of  her  soul. 
And  still  they  sing,  the  nightingales. 


XIII. 

I  would  not  for  her  white  and  jnnk, 
Though  such  he  likes;  her  grace  of 
limb, 
Though  such  he  has  praised ;  nor  yet, 
I  think, 
rot  life  itself,  though  spent  with 
him, — 
Commit  such  sacrilege,  affront 

God's  nature  which  is  love,  intrude 
'Twixt  two  affianced  souls,  and  hunt 

Like  spiders  in  the  altar's  wood. 
I  cannot  bear  these  nightingales. 

XIV. 

If  she  chose  sin,  some  gentler  guise 

She  might  have  sinned    in,   so    it 
seems: 
She  might  have  pricked  out  both  my 
eyes. 

And  I  still  seen  him  in  my  dreams  ! 
—  Or  drugged  me  in  my  soup  or  wine. 

Nor  left  me  angry  afterward: 
To  die  here  with  his  hand  in  mine. 

His  breath  upon  me,  were  not  hard. 
(Our  Lady  hush  these  nightingales  !) 


XV. 

But  set  a  springe  for  him,  "  mio  ben;" 

My  only  good,  my  first,  last  love  ! 
Though  Christ  knows  well  what  sin 
is,  when 

He  sees  some  things  done,  they  must 
move 
Himself  to  wonder.    Let  her  pass. 

I  think  of  her  by  night  and  day. 
Must  /,  too,  join  her  .  .  .  out,  alas  !  .  .  . 

With  Giulio,  in  each  word  I  say  ? 
And  evermore  the  nightingales  ! 


XVI. 

Giulio,  my  Giulio  !  —  sing  they  so, 
And  you  be  silent  ?    Do  I  speak, 


And    you    not    hear?    An  arm    you 
throw 
Round    some    one,   and    I   feel   so 
weak  ? 
—  O   owl-like  birds  !    They  sing  for 
spite, 
They  sing  for  hate,  they  sing  for 
doom , 
They'll  sing  through  death  who  sing 
through  night. 
They'll  sing,  and  stun  me  in  the 
tomb  — 
The  nightingales,  the  nightingales  ! 


MY  KATE. 


She  was  not  as  pretty  as  women  I 
know; 

And  yet  all  your  best,  made  of  sun- 
shine and  snow, 

Drop  to  shade,  melt  to  nought,  in  the 
long  trodden  ways, 

While  she's  still  remembered  on  warm 
and  cold  days  — 

My  Kate. 

II. 

Her  air  had  a  meaning,  her  move- 
ments a  grace ; 

You  turned  from  the  fairest  to  gaze 
on  her  face: 

And,  when  you  had  once  seen  her 
forehead  and  mouth, 

You  saw  as  distinctly  her  soul  and 
her  truth  — 

My  Kate. 

III. 

Such  a  blue  inner  light  from  her  eye- 
lids outbroke. 

You  looked  at  her  silence,  and  fancied 
she  spoke: 

When  she  did,  so  peculiar  yet  soft 
was  the  tone, 

Though  the  loudest  spoke  also,  j'ou 
heard  her  alone  — 

My  Kate. 

IV. 

I  doubt  if  she  said  to  you  much  that 

could  act 
As  a  thought  or  suggestion:  she  did 

not  attract 


SONG  FOR   THE  RAGGED   SCHOOLS    OF  LONDON. 


485 


lu  the  sense  of  the  brilliant  or  wise; 

I  infer 
'Twas  her  thinking  of  others  made 

you  think  of  her  — 

My  Kate. 

V. 

She  never  found  fault  with  you,  never 

implied 
Your  wrong  by  her  right;   and  yet 

men  at  her  side 
Grew  nobler,  girls  purer,  as  through 

the  whole  town 
The  children  were  gladder  that  pulled 

at  her  gown  — 

My  Kate. 

VI. 

None  knelt  at  her  feet  confessed  lov- 
ers in  thrall: 

They  knelt  more  to  God  than  they 
lased,  —  that  was  all. 

If  you  praised  her  as  charming,  some 
asked  what  you  meant; 

But  the  charm  of  her  presence  was 
felt  when  she  went  — 

My  Kate. 

VII. 

The  weak  and  the  gentle,  the  ribald 

and  rude, 
She  took  as  she  found  them,  tind  did 

them  all  good ; 
It  always  was  so  with  her  —  see  what 

you  have  ! 
She  has  made  the  grass  greener  even 

here  .  .  .  with  her  grave  — 

My  Kate. 

VIII. 

My  dear  one  !  when  thou  wast  alive 

with  the  rest, 
I  held  thee  the  sweetest,  and  loved 

thee  the  best; 
And  now  thou  art  dead,  shall  I  not 

take  thy  part. 
As  thy  smiles  used  to  do  for  thyself, 

mv  sweet  heart  — 

My  Kate  ? 


A  SONG  FOR  THE  RAGGED- 
SCHOOLS    OF   LONDON. 

WRITTEN  IN  ROME. 


I  AM  listening  here  in  Rome. 
"England's     strong,"    say 
speakers : 


many 


"  If  she  winks,  the  Czar  must  come, 
Prow  and  topsail  to  the  breakers." 


II. 


"  England's  rich  in  coal  and  oak," 
Adds  a  Roman,  getting  moody: 

"  If  she  shakes  a  travelling-cloak, 
Down  our  Appian  roll  the  scudi.' 


III. 


"  England's  righteous,"  they  rejoin: 
"  Who  shall  grudge  her  exaltations, 

"When  her  wealth  of  golden  coin 
Works  the  welfare  of  the  nations  ?  " 


IV, 


I  am  listening  here  in  Rome. 

Over  Alps  a  voice  is  sweeping,  — 
"  England's  cruel,  save  us  some 

Of  these  victims  in  her  keeping  ! ' 


As  the  cry  beneath  the  wheel 
Of  an  old  triumphal  Roman 

Cleft  the  people's  shouts  like  steel. 
While  the  show  was   spoilt  for  no 
man, 

VI. 

Comes  that  voice.    Let  others  shout. 
Other  poets  praise  my  land  here : 

I  am  sadly  sitting  out, 
Praying,    "  God  forgive    her  gran- 
deur." 

VII. 

Shall  we  boast  of  empire,  where 
Time  with  ruin  sits  commissioned  ? 

In  God's  liberal  blue  air 
Peter's  dome  itself  looks  wizened ; 

VIII. 

And  the  mountains,  in  disdain. 
Gather  back  their  lights  of  opal 

From  the  dumb  despondent  plain. 
Heaped  with  jaw-bones  of  a  people. 

IX. 

Lordly  English  think  it  o'er, 
Caesar's  doing  is  all  undone  ! 

You  have  cannons  on  your  shore. 
And  free  Parliaments  in  London, 

X. 

Princes'      parks,      and      merchants' 
homes, 
Tents    for  soldiers,   ships    for  sea- 
men, — 


486 


LAST  POEMS. 


Ay,  but  ruins  worse  than  Rome's 
In  your  pauper  men  and  women. 

XI. 

Women  leering  through  the  gas, 
(Just  such  bosoms  used   to   nurse 
you,) 
Men,    turned    wolves    by    famine,— 
j)ass  ! 
Those  can  speak   themselves,  and 
curse  you. 

XII. 

But  these  others  —  children  small, 
Spilt  like  blots  about  the  city. 

Quay  and  street,  and  palace-wall  — 
Take  them  up  into  your  pity  ! 

XIII. 

Ragged  children  with  bare  feet, 
Whom  the  angels  in  white  raiment 

Know  the  names  of,  to  rejieat 
When  they  come   on  you  for  pay- 
ment. 

XIV. 

Ragged  children,  hungry-eyed. 
Huddled  up  out  of  the  coldness 

On  your  doorsteps,  side  by  side, 
Till  your  footman  damns  their  bold- 
ness. 

XV 

In  the  alleys,  in  the  squares. 
Begging,  lying  little  rebels; 

In  the  noisy  thoroughfares, 
Struggling  on  with  piteous  trebles. 

xvr. 

Patient  children  —  think  what  pain 
Makes    a    young    child    patient  — 
ponder ! 

Wronged  too  commonly  to  strain 
After  right,  or  wish,  or  wonder. 

XVI  J. 

Wickeil  children,  with  peaked  chins, 
And  old  foreheads  !  there  are  many 

With  no  pleasures  except  sins, 
Gambling  with  a  stolen  penny. 

XVIII. 

Sicl*:ly  children,  that  whine  low 
To     themselves,     and     not     their 
mothers. 

From  mere  habit,  —  never  so 
Hoping  help  or  care  from  others. 


XIX. 


Healthy  children,  with  those  blue 
English    eyes,    fresh     from     their 
Maker, 

Fierce  and  ravenous,  staring  through 
At  the  brown  loaves  of  the  baker. 

XX. 

T  am  listening  here  in  Rome, 
And  the  Romans  are  confessing, 

"  English  children  pass  in  bloom 
All  the  prettiest  made  for  blessing. 

XXI. 

"  Aiif/U  (mr/cli .'  "  (resumed 

From  the  mediaeval  story) 
'■  Such  rose  angelhoods,  emplumed 

In  such  ringlets  of  pure  glory  !  " 

XXII. 

Can  we  smooth  down  the  bright  hair, 
O  my  sisters  !  calm,  unthrilled  in 

Our  heart's  pulses  ?    Can  we  bear 
The  sweet  looks  of  our  own  children, 

XXIII. 

While  those  others,  lean  and  small. 
Scurf  .and  mildew  of  the  city, 

Spot  our  streets,  convict  us  all 
Till  we  take  them  into  pity  ? 

XXIV. 

"  Is  it  our  fault  ?  "  you  reply, 
"  When,  throughout  civilization, 

Every  nation's  empery 
Is  asserted  by  starvation  ? 

XXV. 

"  All  these  mouths  we  cannot  feed. 
And  we  cannot  clothe  these  bodies." 

Well,  if  man's  so  hard  indeed. 
Let  them  learn,  at  least,  what  God 
is! 

XXVI. 

Little  outcasts  fi'om  life's  fold, 
The    grave's    hope    they   may    be 
joined  in. 

By  Christ's  covenant  consoled 
"For  our  social  contract's  grinding 

XXVII. 

If  no  better  can  be  done. 
Let  us  do  but  this,  — endeavor 

That  the  sun  behind  the  sun 
Shine  upon  them  while  they  shiver! 


AMY'S   CRUELTY. 


48: 


XXVIII. 

On  the  dismal  London  flags, 
Through  the  cruel  social  juggle, 

Put  a  thought  beneath  their  rags 
To  ennoble  the  heart's  struggle. 

XXIX. 

O  my  sisters  I  not  so  much 

Are  we  asked  for,  —  not  a  blossom 
From  our  children's  nosegay,  such 

As  we  gave  it  from  our  bosom, 


Not  the  milk  left  in  their  cup, 
Not  the  lamp  while  they  are  sleep- 
ing, 

Not  the  little  cloak  hung  up 
While  the  coat's  in  daily  keeping, 

XXXI. 

But  a  i>laee  in  Ragged-Schools, 
Where  the  outcasts  may  to-morrow 

Learn  by  gentle  words  and  rules 
Just  the  uses  of  their  sorrow. 

XXXII. 

O  my  sisters  !  children  small. 

Bhie-eyed,  wailing  through  the  city, 
Our  own  babes  cry  in  them  all: 

Let  us  take  them  into  pity. 


MAY'S   LOVE. 


You  love  all,  you  say,  — 
Round,  beneath,  above,  me: 

Find  me,  then,  some  way 
Better  than  to  love  me, 

Me,  too,  dearest  May  ! 


O  world-kissing  eyes 

Which  the  blue  heavens  melt  to; 
I,  sad,  overwise, 

Loathe  the  sweet  looks  dealt  to 
All  things  —  men  and  flies. 

HI. 

You  love  all,  you  say: 
Therefore,  dear,  abate  me 

Just  your  love,  I  pray  ! 
Shut  your  eyes  and  hate  me  — 

Only  me,  fair  Maj'  ! 


AMY'S   CRUELTY. 


Fair  Amy  of  the  terraced  house. 

Assist  me  to  discover 
Why    you,   who    would    not    hurt  a 
mouse, 

Can  torture  so  your  lover. 

11. 

You  give  your  coffee  to  the  cat, 
You  stroke  the  dog  for  coming, 

And  all  your  face  grows  kinder  at 
The  little  brown  bee's  humming. 

III. 

But  when   Jie   haunts  your  door  .  .  . 
the  town 
Marks  coming,  and  marks  going  .  .  . 
You  seem  to  have  stitched  your  eye- 
lids down 
To  that  long  piece  of  sewing  ! 

IV. 

You  never  give  a  look,  not  you, 
Nor  drop  him  a  "  Good-morning," 

To  keep  his  long  day  warm  and  blue, 
So  fretted  by  your  scorning. 


She 


head  - 


The  mouse 


shook  her 
and  bee 
For  crumb  or  flower  will  linger; 
The  dog  is  happy  at  my  knee ; 
The  cat  purrs  at  my  finger. 

VI, 

"But  he  .  .  .  to  him,  the  least  thing 
given 
Means  great  things  at  a  distance : 
He  wants    my   world,   my    sun,   my 
heaven, 
Soul,  body,  whole  existence. 

VII. 

"  They  say  love  gives,  as  well  as  takes ; 

But  I'm  a  simjde  maiden,  — 
My    mother's    first    smile  when    she 
wakes 

I  still  have  smiled  and  prayed  in. 

VIII. 

"  I  only  know  my  mother's  love, 
Which  gives  all,  and  asks  nothing; 

And  this  new  loving  sets  the  groove 
Too  much  the  way  of  loathing. 


,.l.». 


488 


LAST  POEMS. 


IX. 


"  Unless  lie  gives  me  all  in  change, 
I  forfeit  all  things  by  him: 

The  risk  is  terrible  and  strange  — 
I  tremble,  doubt  .  .  .  deny  him 


"  He's  sweetest  friend  or  hardest  foe, 

Best  angel  or  worst  devil: 
I  either  hate  or  .  .  .  love  him  so, 

1  can't  be  merely  civil ! 

XI. 

"  You  trust  a  woman  who  puts  forth 
Her  blossoms  thick  as  summer's  ? 

You  think  she  dreams  what  love  is 
worth, 
"Who  casts  it  to  new-comers  ? 

XII. 

"  Such  love's  a  cowslip-ball  to  fling,  — 
A  moment's  jiretty  pastime: 

/give  ...  all  me,  if  any  thing. 
The  first  time  and  the  last  time. 

XIII. 

"  Dear  neighbor  of  the  trellised  house, 
A  man  should  murmur  never, 

Though   treated  worse  than  dog  and 
mouse. 
Till  doted  on  forever  !  " 


MY  HEART   AND  I. 


Enough  !  we're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 
We  sit  beside  the  headstone  thus. 
And  wish  that  name  were  carved 
for  us. 
The  moss  reprints  more  tenderly 
The  hard  types  of  the  mason's  knife, 
As    heaven's    sweet     life     renews 
earth's  life 
With  which   we're   tired,   my    heart 
and  I. 


You  see  we're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 
We  dealt  with  books,  we  trusted 

men, 
And  in  our  own  blood  drenched  the 
pen. 
As  if  such  colors  could  not  fly. 


We  walked    too    straight    for    for- 

tune's  end, 
We  loved  too  true  to  keep  a  friend : 
At  last  we're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

III. 

How  tired  we  feel,  my  heart  and  1 1 

We  seem  of  no  use  in  the  world; 

Our  fancies  hang  gray  and  uncurled 
About  men's  eyes  indifferently; 

Our  voice,  which  thrilled  you  so, 
will  let 

You  sleep;  our  tears  are  only  wet: 
What  do  we  here,  my  heart  and  I  ? 

IV, 

So  tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and  1 1 
It  was  not  thus  in  that  old  time 
When  Ralph  sat  with  me  'neath  the 
lime 
To  watch  the  sunset  from  the  sky. 
"Dear  love,  you're  looking  tired," 

he  said ; 
I,  smiling  at  him,  shook  my  head: 
'Tis  now  we're  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 


So  tired,  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I ! 

Though  now  none  takes  me  on  his 
arm 

To  fold  me  close,  and  kiss  me  warm 
Till  each  quick  breath  end  in  a  sigh 

Of  happy  languor.    Now,  alone, 

We  lean  ujion  this  graveyard  stone, 
Uncheered,  unkissed,  my  heart  and  I. 

VI. 

Tired  out  we  are,  my  heart  and  I. 
Suppose  the  world  brought  diadems 
To    tempt   us,   crusted   with    loose 
gems 

Of  powers  and  pleasures  ?    Let  it  try. 
We  scarcely  care  to  look  at  even 
A  pretty  child,  or  God's  blue  heaven, 

We  feel  so  tired,  my  heart  and  I. 

VII. 

Yet  who  complains  ?  My  heart  and  I  ? 
In  this  abundant  earth  no  doubt 
Is  little  room  for  things  worn  out: 
Disdain    them,    break    them,   throw 
them  by  ! 
And  if,  before  the  days  grew  rough, 
We  once  were  loved,   used,  —  well 
enough 
I  think  we've  fared,  my  heart  and  I. 


WHERE'S  AGNES? 


489 


THE  BEST  THING  IN  THE 
WORLD. 

What's  the  best  thing  in  the  world  ? 
Jane-rose,  by  May-dew  impearled; 
Sweet  south  w;nd  that  means  no  rain ; 
Truth,  not  cruel  to  a  friend; 
Pleasure,  nov  m  haste  to  end; 
Beauty,  not  self-decked  and  curled 
Till  its  pride  is  over  plain; 
Light,  that  never  makes  you  wink; 
Memory,  that  gives  no  pain; 
Love,  when,  so,  you're  loved  again. 
What's  the  best  thing  in  the  world  ? 
—  Something  out  of  it,  I  think. 


WHERE'S   AGNES 


Nay,  if  I  had  come  back  so, 
And  found  her  dead  in  her  grave, 

And  if  a  friend  I  know 
Had  said,  "  Be  strong,  nor  rave; 

She  lies  there,  dead  below: 

II. 

"  I  saw  her,  I  who  speak. 
White,  stiff,  the  face  one  blank: 

The  blue  shade  came  to  her  cheek 
Before  they  nailed  the  plank, 

For  she  had  been  dead  a  week,"  — 

m. 

Wby,  if  he  had  spoken  so, 

I  might  have  believed  the  thing. 

Although  her  look,  although 
Her  step,  laugh,  voice's  ring. 

Lived  in  me  still  as  they  do. 


IV. 

But  dead  that  other  way. 
Corrupted  thus  and  lost  ? 

That  sort  of  worm  in  the  clay  ? 
I  cannot  count  the  cost. 

That  I  should  rise  and  pay 

V. 

My  Agnes  false  ?  such  shame  ? 

She  ?    Rather  be  it  said 
That  the  pure  saint  of  her  name 

Has  stood  there  in  her  stead. 
And  tricked  you  to  this  blame. 


VI 


Her  very  gown,  her  cloak. 
Fell  chastely:  no  disguise. 

But  expression  !   while  she  broke 
With  her  clear  gray  morning-eyes 

Full  upon  me,  and  then  spoke. 


VII. 


She  wore  her  hair  away 

From  her  forehead,  like  a  cloud 
Which  a  little  wind  in  May 

Peels  off  finely;  disallowed. 
Though  bright  enough  to  stay. 


VIII. 


For  the  heavens  must  have  the  place 
To  themselves,  to  use  and  shine  in, 

As  her  soul  would  have  her  face 
To  press  through  u2:)on  mine,  in 

That  orb  of  angel  grace. 


IX. 


Had  she  any  fault  at  all, 

'Twas  having  none,  I  thought  too- 
There  seemed  a  sort  of  thrall; 

As  she  felt  her  shadow  ought  to 
Fall  straight  upon  the  wall. 


Her  sweetness  strained  the  sense 

Of  common  life  and  duty; 
And  every  day's  expense 

Of  moving  in  such  beauty 
Required,  almost,  defence. 

XI. 

What  good,  I  thought,  is  done 
By  such  sweet  things,  if  any  ? 

This  world  smells  ill  i'  the  sun 
Though     the     garden-flowers     are 
many,  — 

She  is  only  one. 

XII. 

Can  a  voice  so  low  and  soft 

Take  open  actual  part 
With  Right,  —  maintain  aloft 

Pure  truth  in  life  or  art, 
Vexed  always,  wounded  oft  ?  — 

xrn. 

She  fit,  with  that  fair  pose 

Which  melts  from  curve  to  curve. 
To  stand,  run,  work  with  those 

Who  wrestle  and  deserve. 
And  speak  plain  without  gloze  ? 


LAST  POEMS. 


XIV. 

But  I  turned  round  on  my  fear 

Defiant,  disagreeing  — 
What  if  God  has  set  her  here 

Less  for  action  than  for  being  ?  — 
For  the  eye  and  for  the  ear. 

XV. 

Jnst  to  show  what  beauty  may, 
Just  to  prove  what  music  can,  — 

And  then  to  die  away 
From  the  presence  of  a  man 

"Who  sliall  learn  henceforth  to  pray  ? 

XVI. 

As  a  door  left  half  ajar 

In  heaven  would  make  him  thinK. 
How  heavenly-different  are 

Things    glanced    at    through     the 
chink. 
Till  he  pined  from  near  to  far. 

xvn. 
That  door  could  lead  to  hell  ? 

That  shining  merely  meant 
Damnation  ?    What !     She  fell 

Like  a  woman,  who  was  sent 
Like  an  angel,  by  a  spell  ? 

XVIII. 

She,  who  scarcely  trod  the  earth, 
Turned  mere  dirt  ?     My  Agnes,  — 
mine  ! 

Called  so  !  felt  of  too  much  worth 
To  be  used  so  !  too  divine 

To  be  breathed  near,  and  so  forth  ! 

XIX. 

Why,  I  dared  not  name  a  sin 
In  her  presence:  I  went  round. 

Clipped  its  name,  and  shut  it  in 
Some  mysterious  crystal  sound,  — 

Changed  the  dagger  for  the  pin. 

XX. 

Now  you  name  herself  that  word  ? 

O  my  Agnes  !     O  my  saint ! 
Then  the  great  joys  of  the  Lord 

Do  not  last?    Then  all  this  paint 
Runs  off  nature  ?  leaves  a  board  ? 

XXI. 

Who's  dead  here  ?    No,  not  she: 
Rather  I !  or  whence  this  damp 

Cold* corruption's  misery? 
While  my  very  mourners  stamp 

Closer  in  the  clods  on  me. 


XXII. 

And  my  mouth  is  full  of  dust 
Till  I  cannot  speak  and  curse  — 

Speak  and  damn  him  ..."  Blame's 
unjust "  ? 
Sin  blots  out  the  universe, 

All  because  she  would  and  must  ? 

XXIII. 

She,  my  white  rose,  dropping  off 
The  high  rose-tree  branch  T  and  not 

That  the  night-wind  blew  too  rough. 
Or  the  noon-sun  burnt  too  hot. 

But,  that  being  a  rose —  'twas  enough! 


earth    grow 
straight 


XXIV. 

Then    henceforth    may 
trees ! 
No    more    roses  !  —  hard 
lines 

To  score  lies  out  I  none  of  these 
Fluctuant    curves,     but    firs     and 
pines. 
Poplars,  cedars,  cypresses  ! 


DE   PROFUNDIS. 


Thk  face,  which,  duly  as  the  sun, 
Rose  up  for  me  with  life  begun. 
To  mark  all  bright  hours  of  the  day 
With  hourly  love,  is  dimmed  away,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

n. 

The  tongue,  which,  like  a  stream, 
could  run 

Smooth  music  from  the  roughest 
stone. 

And  every  morning  with  "  Good- 
day" 

Make  each  day  good,  is  hushed 
away,  — 

And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 

ni. 

The  heart,  which,  like  a  staff,  was  one 
For  mine  to  lean  and  rest  upon, 
The  strongest  on  the  longest  day 
With     steadfast      love,     is      caught 

away,  — 
Aud  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 


I    ^m  >  ■  I  1^ 


BE  PROFUNDIS. 


491 


IV. 


And  cold  before  my  summer's  done. 
And  deaf  in  Nature's  general  tune, 
And  fallen  too  low  for  special  fear, 
And  here,  with  hope  no  longer  here,  — 
While  the  tears  drop,  my  dajs  go  on. 


The  world  goes  whisi^ering  to  its  own, 
"  This  anguish  pierces  to  the  hone;  " 
And  tender  friends  go  sighing  round, 
"  What    love    can     ever    cure     this 

wound?" 
My  days  go  on,  my  days  go  on. 

VI. 

The  j)ast  rolls  forward  on  the  sun, 
And  makes  all  night.     O  dreams  be- 
gun, 
Not  to  be  ended  !     Ended  bliss, 
And  life  that  will  not  end  in  this  !  — 
My  days  go  on,  my  days  go  on. 

VII. 

Breath  freezes  on  my  lips  to  moan : 
As  one  alone,  once  not  alone, 
I  sit  and  knock  at  Nature's  door. 
Heart-bare,  heart-hungry,  very  poor. 
Whose  desolated  days  go  on. 

VIII. 

I  knock  and  cry.  Undone,  undone  ! 
Is  there  no  help,  no  comfort,  —  none  ? 
No  gleaning  in  the  wide  wheat-plains 
Where    others    drive     their    loaded 

wains  ?  — 
My  vacant  days  go  on,  go  on. 


IX. 

Tliis   Nature,   though   the  snows    be 

down. 
Thinks  kindly  of  the  bird  of  June: 
The  little  red  hip  on  the  tree 
Is  ripe  for  sucli.     What  is  for  me 
AVhose  days  so  winterly  go  on  ? 


No  bird  am  I  to  sing  in  June, 
And  dare  not  ask  an  equal  boou. 
Good   nests  and  berries  red  are  Na- 
ture's 
To  give  away  to  better  creatures,  — 
And  yet  my  days  go  on,  go  on. 


/  ask  less  kindness  to  he  done,  — 
Onlj'  to  loose  these  pilgrim-shoon, 
(Too    early  worn  and  grimed)  witli 

sweet 
Cool  deathly  touch  to  these  tired  feet, 
Till  days  gg  out  which  now  go  on. 

.    xir. 

Only  to  lift  the  turf  unmown 

From    off    the    earth    where    it    has 

grown. 
Some  cubit-space,  and  say,  "  Behold  ! 
Creep  in,   poor  heart,   beneath    that 

fold, 
Forgetting  how  the  days  go  on." 

xliii. 

What  harm  would  that  do?    Green 

anon 
The  sward  would  quicken,  overshone 
By  skies  as  blue ;  and  crickets  might 
Have  leave  to  chirp  there  day  and 

night 
While  my  new  rest  went  on,  went  on. 

XIV. 

From  gracious  Nature  have  I  won 
Such  liberal  bounty  ?  may  I  run 
So,  lizard-like,  within  her  side, 
And  there  be  safe,  who  now  am  tried 
By  days  that  painfully  go  on  ? 

XV. 

—  A  Voice  reproves  me  thereupon. 
More  sweet  than  Nature's  when  the 

drone 
Of  bees  is  sweetest,  and  more  deep 
Than  when  the  rivers  overleap 
The  shuddering  jiines,  and  thunder 

on. 

XVI. 

God's    voice,    not    Nature's !     Night 

and  noon 
He  sits  upon  the  great  white  throne. 
And  listens  for  the  creatures'  praise. 
What  babble  we  of  days  and  days  ? 
The  Dayspring  He,  whose  days  go  on. 

XVII. 

He  reigns  above,  he  reigns  alone; 
Systems    burn    out,    and    leave    hid 

throne ; 
Fair  mists  of  seraphs  melt  and  fall 
Around  him,  changeless  amid  all, — 
Ancient  of  days,  whose  days  go  on. 


LAST  POEMS. 


xvin. 

He  reigns  below,  he  reigns  alone, 
And,  having  life  iu  love  foregone 
Beneath  the  crown  of  sovran  thorns 
He  reigns    the    jealous    God.     Who 

mourns 
Or  rules  with  him,  while  days  go  on  ? 

XIX. 

By  anguish  which  made  pale  the  sun, 
I  hear  him  charge  Ins  saints  that  none 
Among  his  creatures  anywhere 
Blaspheme  against  him  with  despair, 
However  darkly  days  go  on. 

XX. 

Take  from  my  head  the  thorn-wreath 

brown  ! 
No  mortal  grief  deserves  that  crown. 

0  supreme  love,  chief  misery. 
The  sharp  regalia  are  for  Thee 
Whose  days  eternally  go  on  ! 

XXI. 

For  us,  whatever's  undergone. 
Thou  knowest,  wiliest,  what  is  done. 
Grief  may  be  joy  misunderstood: 
Only  the  Good  discerns  the  good. 

1  trust  Thee  while  my  days  go  on. 

XXII. 

Whatever's  lost,  it  first  was  won; 
We  will  not  struggle  nor  impugn. 
Perhaps  the  cup  was  broken  here. 
That  heaven's  new  wine  might  show 

more  clear. 
I  praise  Thee  while  my  days  go  on. 


XXIII. 

I  praise  Thee  while  my  days  go  on; 
I  love  Thee  while  my  days  go  on; 
Through  dark  and    dearth,  through 

fire  and  frost. 
With  emptied  arms  and  treasure  lost, 
I  thank  Thee  while  my  days  go  on. 


XXIV. 

And  having  in  thy  life-depth  thrown 
Being  and  suffering  (which  are  one), 
As  a  child  drops  his  pebble  small 
Down  some  deep  well,  and  hears  it 

fall 
Smiling,  —  so  I.    Thy  days  go  oh. 


A  MUSICAL  INSTRUMENT. 

What  was  he  doing,  the  great  god 
Pan, 
Down  in  the  reeds  by  the  river  ? 
Spreading  ruin,  and  scattering  ban, 
Splashing  and  paddling  with  hoofs  of 

a  goat, 
And  breaking  the  golden  lilies  afloat 
With  the  dragon-fly  on  the  river. 


II. 

He  tore  out  a  reed,  the  great  god  Pan, 
From  the    deep,  cool    bed    of    the 
river. 
The  limpid  water  turbidly  ran. 
And  the  broken  lilies  a-dying  lay, 
And  the  dragon-fly  had  fled  away, 
Ere  he  brought  it  out  of  the  river. 


III. 

High  on  the  shore  sat  the  great  god 
Pan, 
While  turbidly  flowed  the  river, 

And  hacked  and  hewed  as  a  great  god 
can, 

With  his  hard  bleak  steel  at  the  pa- 
tient reed. 

Till  there  was  not  a  sign  of  the  leaf 
indeed 
To  prove  it  fresh  from  the  river. 


IV. 

He  cut  it  short,   did  the  great  god 
Pan, 
(How  tall  it  stood  in  the  river  !) 
Then  drew  the  pith,  like  the  heart  of 

a  man. 
Steadily  from  the  outside  ring. 
And    notched  the  poor,  dry,  empty 
thing 
In  holes  as  he  sat  by  the  river. 


"  This  is  the  way,"  laughed  the  great 
god  Pan, 
(Laughed  while  he  sat  by  the  river,) 
"  The  only  way,  since  gods  began 
To  make  sweet  music,  they  could  suc- 
ceed." 
Then,  dropping  his  mouth  to  a  hole  in 
the  reed, 
He  blew  in  power  by  the  river. 


/ 


VICTOR  EMANUEL   ENTERING    FLORENCE. 


493 


VI.  / 

Sweet,  sweet,  sweet,  O  Paii, 

Piercing  sweet  \)j  the  river  I 
Blinding  sweet,  O  great  god  Pan 
The  sun  on  the  hill  forgot 'to  die, 
And  the  lilies  revived,  and  the  dragon- 
fly 
Came  back  to  dream  on  the  river. 


VII. 

Yet  half  a  beast  is  the  great  god  Pan, 

To  laugh  as  he  sits  by  the  river. 
Making  a  poet  out  of  a  man: 
The  true  gods  sigh  for  the  cost  and 

pain,  — 
For  the  reed  which  grows  nevermore 
again 
As  a  reed  with  the  reeds  in  the 
river. 


FIRST    NEWS    FROM   VILLA- 
FRANCA. 


Peace,  peace,  peace,  do  you  say  ? 
What! — with  the  enemy's  guns  in 

our  ears  ? 
"With  the  country's  wrong  not  ren- 
dered back  ? 
"What !  —  while  Austria  stands  at  bay 
In  Mantua,  and  our  Venice  bears 
The  cursed  flag  of  the  vellow  and 
black  ? 

II. 

Peace,  peace,  peace,  do  you  say  ? 
And  this  the  Mincio  ?    Where's  the 

fleet, 
And  Where's  the  sea  ?    Are  we  all 
blind 
Or  mad  with  the  blood  shed  yester- 
day. 
Ignoring  Italy  under  our  feet. 
And  seeing  things  before,  behind  ? 


III. 


Peace,  peace,  peace,  do  you  say  ? 

What  !  — ^  uncontested,  undenied  ? 

Because  we  triumph,  we  succumb? 
A  pair  of  emperors  stand  in  the  way, 

(One  of  whom  is  a  man,  beside) 

To  sign  and  seal  our  cannons  dumb? 


y, 


IV. 

No,  not  Napoleon  !  —  he  who  mused 
At  Paris,  and  at  Milan  spake, 
And  at  Golferino  led  the  fight: 
Not  he  we  trusted,  honored,  used 
Our  hopes  and  hearts  for  .  .  .  till 

they  break  — 
Even    so,  you    tell    us  .  .  .  in   his 
sight. 


Peace,  peace,  is  still  your  word  ? 
We    say    you    lie    then! — that    is 

plain. 
There   in    no    peace,  and  shall  be 
none. 
Our  very  dead  would  cry,  "  Absurd  I  " 
And  clamor  that  they  died  in  vain, 
And  whine  to  come  back  to  the  sun. 


VI. 

Hush  !  more  reverence  for  the  dead  ! 
They've  done  the  most  for  Italy 
Evermore  since  the  earth  was  fair. 

Now  would  that  we  had  died  instead. 
Still  dreaming  peace  meant  liberty, 
And  did  not,  could  not,  mean  de- 
spair. 


yes,    peace,    m 


VII. 

Peace,    you    say?  — 

truth  ! 
But  such  a  peace  as  the  ear  can 

achieve 
'Twixt  the  rifle's  click  and  the  rush 

of  the  ball, 
'Twixt    the    tiger's    spring    and    the 

crunch  of  the  tooth, 
'Twixt  the  dying  atheist's  negative 
And  God's  face  —  waiting,  after  all! 


KING  VICTOR  EMANUEL  EN- 
TERING FLORENCE,  APRIL, 

1860. 


King  of  us  all,  we  cried  to  thee,  cried 
to  thee, 

Trampled  to  earth  by  the  beasts  im- 
pure. 

Dragged  by  the  chariots  which 
shame  as  they  roll: 


494 


LAFT  POEMS. 


The  dust  of  our  torment  far  and  wide 
to  thee 
"Went  up,  darkening  thy  royal  soul. 
Be  w'itjie|Sj_  Cavour, 
That  the  knig  was  sad  for  the  people 
in  thrall, 
This  king  of  us  all ! 

ir. 
King,  we  cried  to  thee  !     Strong  in 
replying. 
Thy  word  and   thy  sword  sprang 

rapid  and  sure, 
Cleaving    our    way    to    a    nation's 
place. 
Oh  first  soldier  of  Italy  !  —  crying 
Now  grateful,  exultant,  we  look  in 
thy  face. 
— —- --    Be  witness,  Cavour, 
That,  freedom's  first  soldier,  the  freed 
should  call 
First  king  of  them  all  1     y 

III. 
This  is  our    beautiful   Italy's  birth- 
day : 
High-thoughted      souls,      whether 

many  or  fewer. 
Bring  her  the  gift,  and  wish  her  the 
good, 
While  Heaven  presents  on  this  sunny 
earth-day 
The    noble    king    to    the    land  re- 
newed. 
Be  witness,  Cavour ! 
Roar,  cannon-mouths!     Proclaim,  in- 
stall 
The  king  of  us  all ! 

IV. 

Grave  he  rides  through  the  Florence 
gateway, 
Clenching  his  face  into  calm,  to  im 

mure 
His  struggling  heart  till  it  half  dis- 
appears : 
If  he  relaxed  for  a  moment,  straight- 
way 
He  would  break  out  into  passionate 
tears  — 
(Be  witness,  Cavour  ?) 
AVhile  rings  the  cry  without  interval, 
"  Live,  king  of  us  all !  " 

V. 

Cry,  free  peoples!    Honor  the  nation 
By  crowning  the   true    man:    and 
none  is  truer: 


Pisa  is  here,  and  Livorno  is  here. 
And  thousands  of  faces,  in  wild  exul- 
tation. 
Burn  over  the  windows  to  feel  him 
near,  — 
(Be  witness,  Cavour !) 
Burn  over  from  terrace,  roof,  window- 
and  wall, 
On  this  king  of  us  all. 


VI. 

Grave !     A    good    man's    ever    the 
gi'aver 
For  bearing  a  nation's  trust  secure; 
And  he,  he  thinks  of  the  heart,  be- 
side, 
Which  broke  for  Italy,  failing  to  save 
her, 
And  pining  away  by  Oporto's  tide; 
Be  witness,  Cavour, 
That  he  thinks  of  his  vow  on   that 
royal  pall  — 
This  king  of  us  all. 


VII. 

Flowers,  flowers,   from    the   flowery 
city  ! 
Such  innocent  thanks  for  a  deed  so 

pure, 
As,  melting  away  for  joy  into  flow- 
ers, 
The  nation  invites  him  to  enter  his 
Pitti, 
And  evermore  reign  in  this  Florence 
of  ours. 
Be  witness,  Cavour  I 
He'll  stand  where   the  reptiles  were 
used  to  crawl  — 
This  king  of  us  all. 


VIII. 

Grave,  as  the  manner  of  noble  men 
is  — 
Deeds  unfinished  will  weigh  on  the 

doer; 
And,  baring  his  liead  to  those  crape- 
veiled  flags, 
He  bows  to  the  grief  of  the  South  and 
Venice. 
Oh,  riddle  the  last  of  the  yellow  to 
rags. 
And  swear  by  Cavour 
That  the  king  shall  reign  where  the 
tyrants  fall, 
True  king  of  us  all ! 


SUMMING    UP   IN   ITALY. 


495 


THE    SWORD    OF    CASTRUC- 
CIO   CASTRACANI. 


"  Questa  iper  me." 

King  Victor  Emanuel. 


When  "Victor  Emanuel,  the  king, 

Went  down  to  his  Lucca  that  day, 
The  people,  each  vaunting  the  thing 
As    he    gave    it,    gave    all    things 

away,  — 
In  a  burst  of  fierce  gratitude,  say. 
As  they  tore  out  their  hearts  for  the 
king. 

II. 
—  Gave  the  green  forest- walk  on  the 
■wall. 
With  the  Apennine  blue  through 
the  trees  { 
Gave  the  palaces,  churches,  and  all 
The  great  pictures  which  burn  out 

of  these  : 
But  the  eyes  of  the  king  seemed  to 
freeze 
As  he  gazed  upon  ceiling  and  wall. 


III. 

"  Good  !  "  said  the  king  as  he  passed. 

W'as  he  cold  to  the  arts  ?  —  or  else 

coy 

To  possession  ?  or  crossed,  at  the  last, 

(Whispered  some)  by  the  vote  in 

Savoy  ? 
Shout !    Love  him  enough  for  his 
joy  ! 
"  Good  !  "  said  the  king  as  he  passed. 


IV. 

lie  travelling  the  whole  day  through 
flowers, 
And  protesting  amenities,  found 
At  Pistoia,  betwixt  the  two  showers 
Of  red  roses,  the   "  Orphans  "  (re- 
nowned 
As  the  heirs  of  Puccini),  who  wound 
With  a  sword  through  the  crowd  and 
the  flowers. 

V. 

"  'Tis    the    sword    of    Castruccio,    O 

king,  — 
In  that  strife  of  intestinal  hate. 
Very    famous  !      Accept     what    we 

bring, 


We  who  cannot  be  sons,  by  our  fate. 
Rendered  citizens  by  thee  of  late. 
And    endowed    with  a  country  and 
king. 

VI. 

"  Read  !     Puccini  has  willed  that  this 
sword 
(Which  once  made  in  an  ignorant 
feud 
Many  orjihans)  remain  in  our  ward 
Till  some  patriot  its  pure  civic  blood 
AVipe  away  in  the  foe's,  and  make 
good. 
In  delivering  the  land  by  the  .sword." 

VII. 

Then  the  king  exclaimed,  "  This  is  for 
me!" 
And  he  dashed  out  his  hand  on  the 
hilt, 
While  his  blue  eye  shot  fire  openly. 
And  his  heart  overboiled  till  it  spilt 
A  hot  prayer:   "God!  the  rest  as 
thou  wilt. 
But  grant  me  this  !  —  This  is  for  me." 


VIII. 

O  Victor  Emanuel,  the  king, 
The  sword  is  for  thee,  and  the  deed, 

And  nought  for  the  alien,  next  spring. 
Nought  for  Hapsburg  and  Bourbon 

agreed  — 
But,  for  us,  a  great  Italy  freed. 

With  a  hero  to  head  us,  —  our  king  ! 


SUMMING   UP  IN  ITALY. 

INSCRIBED    TO    INTELLIGENT    PUB- 
LICS OUT  OF  IT. 


Observe  how  it  will  be  at  last, 
When  our  Italy  stands  at  full  stat- 
ure, 
A  year  ago  tied  down  so  fast 
That  the  cord  cut  the  quick  of  her 
nature ! 
You'll  honor  the  deed  and  its  scope, 
Then  in  logical  sequence  upon  it, 
Will  use  up  the  remnants  of  rope 
By  hanging  the  men  who  have  done 
it. 


496 


LAST  POEMS. 


11. 

The  speech  in  the  Commons,  which 
hits  you 
A  sketch  off,  how  dungeons  must 
feel; 
The  official  despatch,  which  commits 
you 
From    stamping    out    groans    with 
your  heel; 
Suggestions  in  journal  or  book  for 
Good    efforts    are    i>raised     as     is 
meet, — 
But  what  in  this  world  can  men  look 
for. 
Who  only  achieve  and  complete  ? 


III. 

True,  you've  praise  for  the  fireman 
who  sets  his 
Brave  face  to  the  axe  of  the  flame. 
Disappears  in  the  smoke,  and   then 
fetches 
A  babe  down,  or  idiot  that's  lame,  — 
For    the    boor    even,    who    rescues 
through  pity 
A  sheep  from  tlie  brute  who  would 
kick  it: 
But  saviors  of  nations  !  —  'tis  pretty. 
And    doubtful  :    they  may    be    so 
wicked: 


IV. 

Azeglio,  Farini,  Mamiani, 

Ricasoli, — doubt  by  the  doze'i. — 
here's 
Pepoli  too,  and  Cipriani, . 

Imperial  cousins  and  cozener.'  — 
Arese,  Laiatico,  —  courtly 

Of  manners,  if  stringent  of  ir  outh: 
Garibaldi !  we'll  come  to  him  shortly 

(As  soon  as  he  ends  in  the  South.) 


V. 

Napoleon  —  as  strong  as  tei  armi  js, 
Corrupt  as  seven  devils-  a  fact 

You  accede  to,  then  seek  wheve  the 
harm  is 
Drained  off  from  the  man  to  his  act, 

And  find  —  a  free  nation  !     Suppose 
Some  hell-brood  in  Eder  s    sweet 


greenery, 
Convoked  for  creating  —  a  rose  1 
Would    it    suit    the    infernal 
chinery  ? 


ma- 


VI. 

Cavour  —  to  the  despot's  desire. 
Who  his  own  thought   so   craftily 
marries  — 
What  is  he  but  just  a  thin  wire 
For  conducting  the  lightning  from 
Paris  ? 
Yes,  write  down  the  two  as  compeers, 
Confessing  (you  would  not  permit  a 
lie) 
He  bore  up  his  Piedmont  ten  years 
Till  she  suddenly  smiled,  and  wa* 
Italy. 

vn. 

And   the  king,  with  that  "stain  on 
his  scutcheon,"  i 
Savoy  —  as  the  calumny  runs; 
(If  it  be  not    his    blood,  —  with    his 
clutch  on 
The  sword,  and  his  face  to  the  guns). 

0  first,  where  the  battle-storm  gath- 

ers, 
O  loyal  of  heart  on  the  throne. 
Let  those  keep  the  "  graves  of  their 

fathers" 
Who  quail   in   a   nerve   from  their 

own  I 

VIII. 

For  thee  —  through   the  dim    Hades- 
portal 
The  dream   of  a  voice  —  "Blessed 
thou 
Who  hast  made  all  thy  race  twice  im- 
mortal ! 
No  need  of  the  sepulchres  now  ! 
-  -  Left  to  Bourbons  and  Hapsburgs, 
who  fester 
Above-ground     with     worm-eaten 
souls. 
While  the  ghost  of  some  pale  feudal 
jester 
Before     them     strews    treaties    in 
holes." 

IX. 

But  hush  !  — am  I  dreaming  a  poem 
Of  Hades,  Heaven,  Justice?    Not  I; 

1  began  too  far  off,  in  my  proem. 
With  what  men  believe  and  deny; 

And  on  earth,  whatsoever  the  need  is, 
(To  sum  up  as  thoughtful  reviewers) 

The  moral  of  every  great  deed  is  — 
The  virtue  of  slandering  the  doers. 


•  Blue  Book, 
euce. 


Diplomatical   Correspond- 


THE   FORCED   RECRUIT. 


497 


"DIED  ..." 
THE  "TIMES"  OBITUARY. 


What  shall   we   add    now  ?     He    is 
dead. 
And  I  who    praise,   and  yon   who 

blame, 
With  wasli  of  words  across  his  name. 
Find  suddenly  declared  instead  — 
"  On  Sunday,  third  of  August,  dead." 

II. 

Which  stops  the  whole  we  talked  to- 
day, 
I,  quickened  to  a  plausive  glance 
At  his  large  general  tolerance 
By  common  people's  narrow  way, 
Stopped    short    in    praising.     Dead, 
they  say. 

III. 

And  you,  who  had  just  put  in  a  sort 
Of  cold  deduction  —  "  rather,  large 
Through  weakness  of  the  continent 
marge, 
Than    greatness    of    the    thing    con- 
tained "  — 
Broke  off.    Dead  !  —  there,  you  stood 
restrained. 

IV. 

As  if  we  had  talked  in  following  one 
Up  some  long  gallery.     ' '  Would  you 

choose 
An  air  like  that  ?    The  gait  is  loose, 
Or  noble."     Sudden  in  the  sun 
An  oubliette  winks.    Where  i.s   he  ? 
Gone. 

V. 

Dead.     Man's  "  I  was,"  by  God's  "  I 
am  "  — 

All  hero-worship  comes  to  that. 
High  heart,  high  thought,  high  fame, 
as  flat 
As  a  gravestone.     Bring  your  Jacet 

jam  — 
The  epitaph's  an  epigram. 

VI. 

Dead.    There's  an  answer  to  arrest 
All    carping.     Dust's    his    natural 

place  ? 
He'll  let  the  flies  buzz  round  his 
face, 
And,  though  you  slander,  not  protest  ? 
—  From  such  an  one  exact  the  best  ? 


VII. 

Opinions  gold  or  brass  are  null. 
We  chuck  our  flattery  or  abuse, 
Called    Cpesar's    due,    as    Charon's 
dues, 
I'  the  teeth  of  some  dead  sage  or  fool, 
To  mend  the  grinning  of  a  .skull, 

VIII. 

Be  abstinent  in  praise  and  blame. 

The  man's  still  mortal,  who  stands 
tirst. 

And  mortal  only,  if  last  and  worst. 
Then  slowly  lift  so  frail  a  fame, 
Or  softly  drop  so  poor  a  shame. 


THE   FORCED   RECRUIT. 

SOLFERINO,   1859. 

I. 

In  the  ranks  of  the  Austrian  you  found 
him. 

He  died  with  his  face  to  you  all; 
Yet  bury  him  here  where  around  him 

You  honor  your  bravest  that  fall. 

II. 

Venetian,  fair-featured  and  slender, 
He  lies  shot  to  death  in  his  youth, 

With  a  smile  on  his  lips  over-tender 
For  any  mere  soldier's  dead  mouth. 


III. 

No  stranger,  and  yet  not  a  traitor. 
Though  alien  the  cloth  on  his  breast, 

Underneath  it  how  seldom  a  greater 
Young  heart  has  a  shot  sent  to  rest  I 

IV. 

By  your  enemy  tortured  and  goaded 
To  march  with  them,  stand  iu  their 
file. 
His  musket  (see)  never  was  loaded, 
He    facing    your    guns    with    that 
smile  ! 


As  orphans  yearn  on  to  their  mothers, 
He  yearned  to  your  patriot  bands ;  — 

"  Let  me  die  for  our  Italy,  brothers, 
If  not  in  your  ranks,  by  your  hands! 


498 


LAST  POEMS. 


VI. 

"  Aim  straightly,  fire  steadily  !  spare 
me 

A  ball  in  the  body  which  may 
Deliver  my  heart  here,  and  tear  me 

This  badge  of  the  Austrian  away  I  " 

VII. 

So  thought  he,   so  died  he  this  morn- 
ing. 
What  then  ?  many  others  have  died. 
Ay,  but  easy  for  men  to  die  scorning 
The  death-stroke,  who  fought  side 
by  side  — 

VIII. 

One  tricolor  floating  above  them; 
Struck  down  'mid  triumphant  ac- 
claims 
Of  an  Italy  rescued  to  love  them 
And  blazon  the   brass  with    their 
names. 

IX. 

But  he,  without  witness  or  honor, 
Mixed,  shamed  in  his  country's  re- 
gard, 
"With  the  tyrants  who  march  in  upon 
her, 
Died    faithful    and    passive:    'twas 
hard. 

X. 

'Twas  sublime.     In    a   cruel   restric- 
tion 
Cut  off  from  the  guerdon  of  sous. 
With  most  filial   obedience,  convic- 
tion. 
His  soul  kissed  the  lips  of  her  guns. 

XI. 

That  moves  you  ?  Nay,  grudge  not 
to  show  it, 

While  digging  a  grave  for  liim  here: 
The  others  who  died,  says  your  poet. 

Have  glory,  —  let  1dm  have  a  tear. 


GARIBALDI. 


He  bent  his  head  upon  his  breast 
Wherein  his  lion-heart  lay  sick: 
"  Perhaps  we  are  not  ill  repaid; 

Perhaps  this  is  not  a  true  test ; 


Perhaps  this  was  not  a  foul  trick; 
Perhaps  none  wronged,  and  none 
betrayed. 

II. 

"  Perhaps    the    people's    vote    which 
here 
United,  there  may  disunite. 
And  both  be  lawful  as  they  think; 
Perhaps  a  patriot  statesman,  dear 
For    chartering    nations,  can  with 

right 
Disfranchise    those   who    hold    the 
ink. 

III. 

"  Perhaps  men's  wisdom  is  not  craft; 
Men's  greatness,  not  a  selfish  greed; 
Men's  justice,  not  the  safer  side; 
Perhaps    even    women,    when    they 
laughed. 
Wept,  thanked  us  that  the  land  was 

freed, 
Not  wholly  (though  they  kissed  us) 
lied. 


IV. 

"  Perhaps    no    more    than    this    we 
meant. 
When  up  at  Austria's  guns  we  flew, 
And    quenched    them  with    a    cry 
apiece, 
Italia !  —  Yet  a  dream  was  sent  .  .  . 
The  little  house  my  father  knew, 
The  olives  and  the  palms  of  Nice." 


V. 

He  paused,  and  drew  his  sword  out 
slow, 
Then  pored  upon  the  blade  intent. 
As  if  to  read  some  written  thing; 
While  many  murmured,  "  He  will  go 
In  that  despairing  sentiment 
And   break  his   sword    before    the 
king." 

VI. 

He  poring  still  upon  the  blade. 
His   large  lid  quivered,  something 

fell. 
"Perhaps,"   he   said,   "I  was    not 
born 
With  such  fine  brains  to  treat  and 
trade, — 
And,  if  a  woman  knew  it  well. 
Her  falsehood  only  meant  her  scorn. 


ONLY  A    CURL. 


499 


VII. 

Yet  through  Varese's  cannon-smoke, 
My  eye  saw  clear:  men  feared  this 

man 
At  Como,  where  this  sword  could 
seal 
Death's  protocol  with  every  stroke: 
And  now  .  .  .  the  droj}  there  scarce- 
ly can 
Impair  the  keenness  of  the  steel. 

VIII. 

■  So  man  and  sword  may  have  their 
use; 
And  if  the  soil  beneath  my  foot 
In  A-alor's  act  is  forfeited, 
I'll  strike  the  harder,  take  my  dues 
Out  nobler,  and  all  loss  confute 
From    ampler  heavens    above    my 
head. 

IX. 

"  My  king,  King  Victor,  I  am  thine  ! 

So  much  Nice-dust  as  what  I  am 

(To  make  our  Italy)  must  cleave. 
Forgive  that."     Forward  with  a  sign 

He  went. 

You've  seen  the  telegram  ? 

Palermo's  taken,  we  believe. 


ONLY   A  CURL. 


Friends  of  faces  unknown  and  a  land 

Unvisited  over  the  sea, 
Who  tell  me  how  lonely  you  stand 
With  a  single  gold  curl  in  the  hand 

Held  up  to  be  looked  at  by  me,  — 

II. 

While  you  ask  me  to  ponder  and  say 
What  a  father  and  mother  can  do, 
With  the  bright  fellow-locks  put  away 
Out  of  reach,  beyond  kiss,  in  the  clay 
Where  the  violets  press  nearer  than 
you: 

III. 

Shall  I  speak  like  a  poet,  or  run 

Into  weak  woman's  tears  for  relief  ? 
O  children  !  —  I  never  lost  one,  — 
Yet  my  arm's  round  my  own   little 
son, 
And  love  knows  the  secret  of  grief. 


IV. 

And  I  feel  what  it  must  be  and  is, 
When  God  draws  a  new  angel  so 

Through  the   house  of  a  man  up  to 
his. 

With  a  murmur  of  music  you  miss, 
And  a  rapture  of  light  you  forego. 


V. 

How  you  think,   staring  on    at    the 
door. 
Where  the  face  of  your  angel  flashed 
in, 
That  its  brightness,  familiar  before, 
Burns  off  from  you  ever  the  more 
For  the  dark  of  your  sorrow  and 
sin. 

VI. 

"God  lent  him  and  takes  him,"  you 
sigh; 
—  Nay,  there    let    me    break  with 
your  pain: 
God's  generous  in  giving,  say  I; 
And  the  thing  which  he  gives,  I  deny 
That  he  ever  can  take  back  again. 


VII. 

He  gives  what  he  gives.     I  appeal 

To  all  who  bear  babes,  —  in  the  hour 
When  the  veil  of  the  body  we  feel 
Rent  round  us,  —  while  torments  re- 
veal 
The  motherhood's  advent  in  power. 


VIII. 

And  the  babe  cries  !  — has  each  of  us 
known 
By  apocalypse  (God  being  there 
Full  in  nature)  the  child  is  our  own. 
Life  of   life,  love  of    love,   moan  of 
moan. 
Through    all    changes,    all    times, 
everywhere. 


IX. 

He's  ours  and  forever.     Believe, 

O  father  !  —  O  mother,  look  back 
To    the    first    love's    assurance !    To 

give 
Means  with  God  not  to  tempt  or  de- 
ceive 
With  a  cup  thrust  in   Benjamin's 
sack. 


500 


LAST  POEMS. 


X. 

He  gives  what  he  gives.    Be  content  ! 

He  resumes  nothing  given,  be  sure  ! 
God  lend  ?    Where  the  usurers  lent 
In  his  temple,  indignant  he  went 

And  scourged  away  all  those  im- 
pure. 

XI. 

He  lends  not,  but  gives  to  the  end. 
As  he  loves  to  the  end.    If  it  seem 

That  he  draws  back  a  gift,  compre- 
hend 

'Tis  to  add  to  it  rather,  — amend, 
And  finish  it  up  to  your  dream,  — 

xn. 
Or  keep,  as  t,  mother  will  toys 

Too  costly,  though  given  by  herself, 
Till   the  room  shall   be  stiller  from 

noise. 
And  the  children   more  fit  for  such 
joys 
KejJt  over  their  heads  on  the  shelf. 

xm. 

So  look  up,  friends  !  you,  who  indeed 
Have    possessed    in  your  house    a 
sweet  piece 
Of  the  heaven  which  men  strive  for, 

must  need 
Be  more  earnest  than  others  are,— 
sijeed 
Where    they  loiter,   persist    where 
they  cease. 


XIV. 


You 


know    how    one    angel    smiles 
there. 
Then  weep  not.     'Tis  easy  for  you 
To  be  drawn  by  a  single  gold  hair 
Of  that  curl,  from  earth's  storm  and 
despair. 
To  the  safe  place  above  us.     Adieu. 


A   VIEW   ACROSS   THE 
ROMAN   CAMPAGNA. 

1861. 


Over  the  dumb  Campagna-sea, 
Out  in  the  ofBng  through  mist  and 
rain, 
St.  Peter's  Church  heaves  silently 


Like  a  mighty  ship  in  pain. 
Facing  the  tempest  with  struggle 
and  strain. 


II. 

Motionless  waifs  of  ruined  towers. 
Soundless  breakers  of  desolate  land : 

The  sullen  surf  of  the  mist  devours 
That  mountain-range  upon    either 

hand. 
Eaten  away  from  its  outline  grand. 

III. 

And  over  the  dumb  Campagnarsea 
Where    the    ship    of    the    Church 
heaves  on  to  wreck. 
Alone  and  silent  as  God  must  be. 
The  Christ  walks.    Ay,  but  Peter's 

neck 
Is  stiff  to  turn  on  the  foundering 
deck. 

IV. 

Peter,  Peter  !  if  such  be  thy  name. 
Now  leave  the  ship  for  another  to 
steer. 
And,  proving  thy  faith  evermore  the 
same, 
Come  forth,  tread  out  through  the 

dark  and  drear. 
Since  He  who  walks  on  the  sea  is 
here. 


Peter,  Peter  !     He  does  not  speak  ; 

He  is  not  as  rash  as  in  old  Galilee: 
Safer  a  ship,  though  it  toss  and  leak. 

Than  a  reeling  foot  on  a  rolling  sea  ! 

And  he's  got  to  he  round  in  the 
girth,  thinks  he. 

VI. 

Peter,  Peter  !     He  does  not  stir; 

His  nets  are  heavy  with  silver  fish; 
He  reckons  his  gains,  and  is  keen  to 
infer 
—  "The  broil  on  the  shore,  if  the 

Lord  should  wish: 
But  the  sturgeon  goes  to  the  Caesar's 
dish." 

VII. 

Peter,  Peter  !  thou  fisher  of  men, 
Fisher  of  fish  wouldst  thou  live  in- 
stead ? 
Haggling  for  pence  with  the   other 
ten, 
Cheating  the  market  at  so  much  a 

head, 
Griping  the  bag  of  the  traitor  dead  ? 


^  >  ■  t  ^ 


PARTING   LOVERS. 


501 


VIII. 

At  the  triple  crow  of  the  Gallic  cock 
Thou    weep'st    not,    thou,    though 
thine  eyes  be  dazed: 
What  bird  comes  next  in  the  tempest- 
shock  ? 
—  Vultures  I  see,  — as  when  Romu- 
lus gazed, — 
To  inaugurate  Rome   for  a  world 
amazed  1 


THE   KING'S   GIFT. 


Teresa,  ah,  Teresita  I 
Now  what  has  the  messenger  brought 

her, 
Our  Garibaldi's  young  daughter, 
To  make  her  stop  short  in  her  sing- 
ing? 
Will  she  not  once  more  repeat  a 
Verse  from  that  hymn  of  our  hero's, 

Setting  the  souls  of  us  ringing  ? 
Break  off  the  song  where   the  tear 
rose  ? 


Ah,  Teresita  ! 


II. 

A  young  thing,  mark,  is  Teresa: 
Her  eyes  have  caught  fire,  to  be  sure, 

in 
That  necklace  of  jewels  from  Turin, 
Till  blind  their  regard  to  us  men  is. 
But  still  she  remembers  to  raise  a 
Sly  look  to  her  father,  and  note  — 
"Could  she  sing  on  as  well  about 
Venice, 
Yet  wear  such  a  flame  at  her  throat  ? 
Decide  for  Teresa." 


III. 

Teresa,  ah,  Teresita ! 
His  right  hand  has  paused  on    her 

head; 
"  Accept  it,  mj'  daughter,"  he  said; 
"  Ay,   wear  it,   true    child  of    thy 
mother ! 
Then  sing,  till  all  start  to  their  feet,  a 
New  verse  ever  bolder  and  freer  ! 

King  Victor's  no  king  like  another. 
But  verily  noble  as  we  are, 
Child,  Teresita  !  " 


PARTING   LOVERS. 

SIENA,   I860. 


I  LOVE  thee,  love  thee,  Giulio; 
Some  call  me  cold,  and   some   de- 
mure ; 
And  if  thou  hast  ever  guessed  that  so 
I   loved  thee  .  .  .  well,   the    proof 
was  poor. 
And  no  one  could  be  sure. 


II. 

Before  thy  song  (with  shifted  rhymes 

To  suit  my  name)  did  I  undo 
The  Persian  ?    If  it  stirred  sometimes, 
Thou  hast  not  seen  a  hand  push 
through 
A  foolish  flower  or  two. 


My  mother,  listening  to  my  sleep. 

Heard  nothing  but  a  sigh  at  night,  — 
The  short  sigh  rippling  on  the  deep, 
When  hearts  run  out  of  breath  and 
sight 
Of  men,  to  God's  clear  light 

IV. 

When  others  named  thee,  —  thought 
thy  brows 
Were  straight,  thy  smile  was  ten- 
der—  "  Here 
He    comes    between    the    vineyard 
rows ! " 
I  said  not  "  Ay,"  nor  waited,  dear. 
To  feel  thee  step  too  near. 


I  left  such  things  to  bolder  girls,  — 

Olivia  or  Clotilda.     Nay, 
When  that  Clotilda,  through  her  curls, 
Held   both  thine  eyes  in  hers  one 
day, 
I  marvelled,  let  me  say. 


VI. 

I  could  not  try  the  woman's  trick: 
Between   us    straightway  fell    the 
blush 
Which  kept  me  separate,  blind,  and 
sick. 
A  wind  came  with  thee  in  a  flush. 
As  blown  thro'  Sinai's  bush-. 


LAST  POEMS. 


VII. 

But  now  that  Italy  invokes 
Her  yoiiug  men   to  go  forth,   and 
chase 
The  foe  or  perish,  —  nothing  chokes 
My  voice,  or  drives  me  from   tlie 
place. 
I  look  thee  in  the  face. 


VIII. 

I  love  thee  !     It  is  understood, 
Confest;  I  do  not  shrink  or  start. 

No  blushes  !  all  my  body's  blood 
Has  gone  to  greaten  this  poor  heart. 
That,  loving,  we  may  part. 

IX. 

Our  Italy  invokes  the  youth 
To    diie  if    need  be.      Still  there's 
room, 
Though  earth  is  strained  with  dead  in 
truth ; 
Since  twice  the  lilies  were  in  bloom 
They  have  not  grudged  a  tomb. 

X. 

And  many  a  i)lighted  maid  and  wife 
And    mother,   who  can  say,   since 
then, 
"  My  country,"  — cannot  say  through 
life 
"My    son,"    "my    spouse,"    "my 
fiower  of  men," 
And  not  weep  dumb  again. 

xi. 

Heroic  males  the  country  bears; 
But  daughters  give  up  more  than 
sons: 
Flags    wave,    drums    beat,   and    un- 
awares 
You  flash  your  souls  out  witli   the 
guns. 
And  take  your  heaven  at  once. 

XII. 

But  we  !  we  empty  heart  and  home 
Of    life's   life,   love  !     We    bear  tu 
think 
You're    gone,   to   fee;!    you   may   not 
come. 
To    hear    the    door-latch    stir   and 
clink. 

Yet   no   more    you !  .  .  .  nor 
sink. 


XIII. 

Dear  God  I  when  Italy  is  one. 
Complete,  content  from    bound    to 
bound. 
Suppose,   for  my  share,   earth's  un- 
done 
By  one  grave  in't !  —  as  one  small 
wound 
Will  kill  a  man,  'tis  found. 

XIV. 

What  then  ?    If  love's  delight  must 
end, 
At  least  we'll  clear  its  truth  from 
flaws. 
I    love    thee,    love     thee,    sweetest 
friend  ! 
Now    take    my    sweetest    without 
pause. 
Ami  help  the  nation's  cause. 

XVI. 

And  thus,  of  noble  Italy 
We'll    both   he   worthy  !     Let    her 
show 
The  future  how  we  made  her  free, 
Not  sparing  life  .  .  .  nor  Giulio, 

Nor    this  —  this    heartbreak! 
Go. 


MOTHER  AND   POET. 

TURIN,  AFTER  NEWS  FROM  GAETA, 
1861. 


Dead  !    One  of  them  shot  ])y  the  sea 
in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west 
by  the  sea. 
Dead  !  both  my  boys  !     When  you  sit 
at  the  feast. 
And  are  wanting  a  great  song  for 
Italy  free. 
Let  none  look  at  ?ne. 


Yet  I  was  a  poetess  only  last  year. 
And  good  at  my  art,  for  a  woman, 
men  said; 
But  this  woman,  this,  who  is  agonized 
here, 
—  The  east  sea  and  west  sea  rhyme 
on  in  her  head 
Forever  instead. 


MOTHER   AND    POET. 


503 


III. 

What  art  can  a  woman  be  good  at? 
Oh,  vain! 
What  art  is  she  good  at,  but  hurt- 
ing her  breast 
With  the  milk-teeth  of  babes,  and  a 
smile  at  the  pain  ? 
Ah,  boys,  how  you  hurt !  you  were 
strong  as  you  prest, 
And  I  proud  by  that  test. 


IV, 


?    To  hold 


by 


What  art's  for  a  woman 
on  her  knees 
Both    darlings !    to   feel     all     their 
arms  round  her  tliroat. 
Cling,   strangle  a  little  !    to  sew 
degrees, 

And   'broider  the  long-clothes  and 
neat  little  coat ; 
To  dream  and  to  dote. 


To  teach  them.  ...  It  stings  there ! 
I  made  them  indeed 
Speak  plain  the  word   countvy.    I 
taught  them,  no  doubt. 
That  a  country's  a  thing  men  should 
die  for  at  need. 
I  prated    of    liberty,    rights,    and 
about 
The  tyrant  cast  out. 


VI. 


And 


O 


when  their  eyes  Hashed  . 
my  beautiful  eyes  !  .  .  . 
/exulted;  nay,  let  them  go  forth  at 
the  wheels 
Of   the  guns,  and  denied  not.     But 
then  the  surprise 
When  one  sits  quite  alone  !     Then 
one  weeps,  then  one  kneels 
God,  how  the  house  feels  ! 


VII. 


At 


first,  happj'  news  came,   in  gay 
letters  moiled 
With   my  kisses,  of  camp-life   and 
glory,  and  how 
They  both  loved  me;  and,  soon  com- 
ing home  to  be  spoiled, 
In  return  would   fan  off  every  fiy 
from  ray  brow 
With  their  green  laurel-bough. 


VIII. 

triumph   at 


Turin  :  "An- 


Then  was 

cona  was  free  I 
And  some   one    came   out    of    the 
cheers  in  the  street, 
With  a  face  pale  as    stone,   to  say 
something  to  me. 
My  Guido  was  dead  I    I  fell  down 
at  his  feet, 
W^hile  they  cheered  in  the  street. 


IX. 

I   bore  it;    friends  soothed  me;  my 
grief  looked  sublime 
As  the  ransom  of  Italy.    One  boy 
remained 
To  be  leant  on  and  walked  with,  re- 
calling the  time 
When    the    first    grew    immortal, 
while  both  of  us  strained 
To  the  height  he  had  gained. 


And  letters  still  came,  shorter,  sadder, 
more  strong. 
Writ  now  but  in  one  hand.      "I 
was  not  to  faint,  — 
One  loved  me  for  two,  would  be  with 
me  ere  long: 
And    Viva    I' Italia !  —  he    died    for, 
our  saint, 
Who  forbids  our  complaint." 


My  Nanni  would  /add,  "  he  was  safe, 
and  aware   ' 
Of  a  presence /that  turned  off  the 
balls,  —  wAs  imprest 
It    was    Guido/  himself,   who    knew 
what  I  could  bear. 
And  how   'Irwas    impossible,   quite 
dispossest, 
To  live  on  for  the  rest." 


XII. 

On  which,  without  pause,  up  the  tele- 
graph-line 
Swept    smoothlj-    the    next    news 
from  Gaeta,  —  Shot. 
Tell    his    mother.      Ah,    ah!     "his," 
"  their  "  mother,  not "  mine:  " 
No  voice  says,  "  3///  mother,"  again 
to  me.     What ! 
You  think  Guido  forgot  ? 


504 


LAST  POEMS. 


xin. 


Are 


that, 


1 


souls  straight  i  so    happy, 
dizzy  with  heaven, 
They  drop  earth's  affections,  con- 
ceive not  of  w^oe  ? 
think  not.     Themselves  were  too 

lately  forgiveij 
Through  That  Love  and    Sorrow 
which  reconciled  so 
The  Above  and  [Below 


xr\|. 

0   Christ  of    the   fiVe   wounds,   who 
look'dst  through  the  dark 
To  the  face  of  thy  mother !    con- 
sider, I  pray, 
How  we  common  mothers  stand  deso- 
late, mark, 
Whose  sons,  not  being  Christs,  die 
with  eyes  turned  away, 
And  no  last  word  to  say. 

/ 

XV. 

Both  boys  dead  ?  but  that's  out  of 
nature.    "VVe  all 
Have  been  patriots,  yet  each  house 
must  always  keep  one. 
'Twere  imbecile,  hewing  out  roads  to 
a  wall; 
And,  when  Italy's  made,  for  what 
end  is  it  done. 
If  we  have  not  a  son  ? 


XVI. 

Ah,   ah,   ah !    when    Gaeta's    taken, 
what  then  ? 
When  the  fair  wicked  queen  sits  no 
more  at  her  sport 
Of    (he  fire-balls  of  death    crashing 
souls  out  of  men  ? 
When    the    guns    of   Cavalli  with 
final  retort 
Have  cut  the  igame  short  ? 


XiVII. 

When  Venice  and  Rome  keep  their 
new  jubilee; 
When  your  flag  takes  all  heaven  for 
its  white,  green,  and  red; 
When  you  have  your  country  from 
rnountain  to  sea; 
When    King    Victor    has    Italy's 
crown  on  his  head, 
(And  I  have  my  dead),  — 


XVIII. 

What  then  ?    Do  not  mock  me.    Ah, 
ring  your  bells  low, 
And  burn  your  lights  faintly  !    My 
country  is  there, 
Above  the  star  pricked  by  the  last 
peak  of  snow: 
My  Italy's  there,  with   my  brave 
civic  pair 
To  disfranchise  despair ! 


XIX. 

Forgive  me.     Some  women  bear  chil- 
dren in  strength, 
And  bite  back  the  cry  of  their  pain 
in  self-scorn; 
But  the  birth-pangs  of  nations  will 
wring  us  at  length 
Into  wail  such  as  this;  and  we  sit 
on  forlorn 
When  the  man-child  is  born. 


XX. 

Dead  !     One  of  them  shot  by  the  sea 
in  the  east, 
And  one  of  them  shot  in  the  west 
by  the  sea. 
Both  !  both  my  boys  !     If  in  keeping 
the  feast 
You  want  a   great    song  for  your 
Italy  free, 
Let  none  look  at  me  ! 

[This  was  Laura  Savio  of  Turin,  a  poet- 
ess and  patriot,  whose  sons  were  Jiilled  at 
Ancona  and  Gaeta.] 


NATURE'S  REMORSES. 

ROME,  1861. 


Her  soul  was  bred  by  a  throne,  and 
fed 
From  the  sucking-bottle  used  in  her 
race 
On  starch  and  water  (for  mother's 
milk, 
Which  gives  a  larger  growth  instead). 
And,    out    of    the    natural    liberal 
grace, 
Was  swaddled  away  in  violet  silk. 


NA  T  URE ' S  REMORSES. 


II. 

And  young    and    kind,   and  royally 
blind, 
Forth  she  stepped  from  her  palace- 
door 
On  three-piled  carpet  of  compli- 
ments, 
Curtains    of    incense    drawn    by  the 
wind 
In  between  her  forevermore 
And  daylight  issues  of  events. 


III. 

On  she  drew,  as  a  queen  might  do. 
To  meet  a  dream  of  Italy,  — 

Of    magical    town    and    musical 
wave, 
"Where  even  a  god,  his  amulet  blue 
Of  shining  sea,  in  an  ecstasy, 
Dropt  and  forgot   in    a   nereid's 
cave. 

IV. 

Down    she    goes,    as    the    soft  wind 
blows. 
To  live  more  smoothly  than  mortals 
can. 
To  love  and  to  reign  as  queen  and 
wife. 
To  wear  a  crown  that  smells  of  a  rose. 
And  still,  with  a  sceptre  as  light  as 
a  fan. 
Beat  sweet  time  to  the  song  of 
life. 


What  is  this  ?    As  quick  as  a  kiss 
Falls    the    smile    from    her  girlish 
mouth  ! 
The  lion-people  has  left  its  lair, 
Roaring  along  her  garden  of  bliss. 
And  the  fiery  underworld  of    the 
South 
Scorched  a  way  to  the  upper  air. 

VI. 

And  a  fire-stone  ran  in  the  form  of  a 
man, 
Burningly,  boundingly,    fatal    and 
fell. 
Bowling     the     kingdom    down ! 
Where  was  the  king  ? 
She  had  heard  somewhat,  since  life 
began. 
Of  terrors  on  earth,  and  horrors  in 
hell, 
But  never,  never,  of  such  a  thing. 


VII. 


You 


her 


think    she    dropped   when 
di'eam  was  stopped, 
When  the  blotch  of  Bourbon  blood 
inlay, 
Lividly    rank,     her    new     lord's 
cheek  ? 
Not  so.     Her  high  heart  overtopped 
The   royal  part  she  had    come    to 
play. 
Only  the  men  in  that  hour  were 
weak. 

VIII. 

And  twice  a  wife  by  her  ravaged  life, 
And  twice  a  queen  by  her  kingdom 
lost, 
She  braved  the  shock    and    the 
counter-shock 
Of  hero  and  traitor,  bullet  and  knife, 
While  Italy  pushed,  like  a  vengeful 
ghost. 
That  son  of  the  Cursed  from  Gae- 
ta's  rock. 

IX. 

What  will  ye  give  her,  who  could  not 
deliver, 
German      princesses  ?     A     laurel- 
wreath 
All  over-scored  with  your  signa- 
tures ? 
Graces,  Serenities,  Highnesses  ever  ? 
Mock  lier  not  fresh  from  the  truth 
of  death, 
Conscious  of  dignities  higher  than 
yours. 

X. 

What  will  ye  put  in  your  casket  shut, 
Ladies    of    Paris,     in    sympathy's 
name  ? 
Guizot's  daughter,  what  have  you 
brought  her  ? 
Withered  immortelles,  long  ago  cut 
For    guilty  dynasties    perished    in 
shame. 
Putrid  to  memory,  Guizot's  daugh- 
ter? 

XI. 

Ah,  poor  queen  !  so  young  and  serene  ! 
What    shall    we    do  for   her,   now 
hope's  done. 
Standing  at  Rome  in  these  ruins 
old. 
She  too  a  ruin,  and  no  more  a  queen  ? 
Leave  her  that  diadem  made  by  the 
sun 
Turning  her  hair  to  an  innocent 
gold. 


506 


LAST  POEMS. 


XII. 

Ay  !  bring  close  to  her,  as  'twere  a 
rose  to  her, 
Yon  free  child  from  an  Apennine 
city 
Singing  for  Italy,  —  dumb  in  the 
place  ! 
Something  like  solace,  let  us  suppose, 
to  her 
Given,  in  that  homage  of  wonder 
and  pity. 
By  his  pure  eyes  to  her  beautiful 
face. 

XIII. 

Nature,  excluded,  savagely  brooded; 
Ruined  all  queendom  and  dogmas 
of  state: 
Then,  in  re-action  remorseful  and 
mild. 
Rescues     the     womanhood,     nearly 
eluded, 
Shows  her  what's  sweetest  in  wo- 
manly fate  — 
Sunshine  from  heavej,  and  the 
eyes  of  a  child. 


THE 


THE 


NORTH   AND 
SOUTH. 

[THE  LAST  POEM.] 
Rome,  Mat,  1861. 


"  Now  give  us  lands  where  the  olives 
grow," 
Cried  the  North  to  the  South, 
"  Where    the    sun,    with    a    golden 

mouth,  can  blow 
Blue  bubbles  of  grapes  down  a  vine- 
yard-row ! " 
Cried  the  North  to  the  South. 

"  Now  give  us  men  from  the  sunless 
plain," 
Cried  the  South  to  the  North, 


"  By  need  of  work  in  the  snow  and 

the  rain. 
Made  strong,  and  brave  by  familiar 


pain 


Cried  the  South  to  the  North. 

II. 

"  Give    lucider    hills    and    intenser 
seas," 
Said  the  North  to  the  South, 
"  Since  ever,  by  symbols  and  bright 

degrees, 
Art,   childlike,    climbs    to    the    dear 
Lord's  knees," 
Said  the  North  to  the  South. 

"  Give  strenuous  souls  for  belief  and 
prayer," 
Said  the  South  to  the  North, 
"That  stand  in  the  dark  on  the  low- 
est stair, 
While  affirming  of  God,  '  He  is  cer- 
tainly there,'  " 
Said  the  South  to  the  North. 

III. 

"  Yet,  oh  for  the  skies  that  are  softer 
and  higher ! " 
Sighed  the  North  to  the  South ; 
"  For  the  flowers  that  blaze,  and  the 

trees  that  aspire, 
And  the  insects  made  of  a  song  or  a 
flre  !  " 
Sighed  the  North  to  the  South. 

"  And  oh  for  a  seer  to  discern  the 


same 


I  " 


Sighed  the  South  to  the  North ; 
"  For  a  poet's  tongue  of    baptismal 

flame, 
To  call  the  tree  or  the  flower  by  its 
name  ! " 
Sighed  the  South  to  the  North. 

IV. 

The   North  sent  therefore  a  man  of 
men 
As  a  grace  to  the  South ; 
And  thus  to  Rome  came  Andersen. 
—  "Alas,    but    must    you    take     him 
again  ?  " 
Said  the  South  to  the  North. 


TRANSLATIOJ^S. 


FROM  THEOCRITUS. 
THE   CYCLOPS. 

(Idyl  XI.) 

And  so  an  easier  life   our    Cyclops 
drew, 
The  ancient  Polyphemus,  who  in 
youth 
Lioved  Galatea  while   the   manhood 
grew 
Adown  his  cheeks,  and  darkened 
round  his  mouth. 
No  jot  he  cared  for  apples,   olives, 
roses; 
Love   made  him  mad;   the  whole 
world  was  neglected, 
The  very  sheep  went  backward    to 
their  closes 
From  out  the  fair  green  pastures, 
self-directed. 
And  singing  Galatea,  thus,  he  wore 
The  sunrise  down  along  the  weedy 
shore, 
And  pined  alone,  and  felt  the  cruel 
wound 
Beneath  his  heart,  which  Cypris'  ar- 
row bore, 
With  a  deep  pang:  but,  so,  the  cure 
was  found; 
And,  sitting  on  a  lofty  rock,  he  cast 
His  eyes  upon  the  sea,  and  sang  at 

last: 
"  O  whitest  Galatea,  can  it  be 
That  thou  shouldst  s])urn  me  off  who 
love  thee  so  ? 
More  white  than  curds,  my  girl,  thou 

art  to  see, 
More  meek  than  lambs,  more  full  of 
leaping  glee 
Than  kids,  and   brighter  than  the 
early  glow 
On  grapes  that  swell  to  ripen,  —  sour 

like  thee  ! 
Thou  comest  to  me  with  the  fragrant 
sleep, 
And  with  the  fragrant  sleep  tb.ca 
goest  from  me; 


Thou  fliest  .  .  .  fiiest  as  a  frightened 
sheep 
Flies  the  gray  wolf  !  —  yet  love  did 
•overcome  me. 
So  long  !  — I  loved  thee,  maiden,  first 
of  all, 
"When  down  the  hills  (my  mother 
fast  beside  thee) 
I  saw  thee  stray  to  pluck  the  summer- 
fall 
Of  hyacinth-bells,  and  went  myself 
to  guide  thee ; 
And  since  my  eyes  have  seen  thee, 
they  can  leave  thee 
No  more,  from  that   day's   light ! 
But  thou  .  .  .  by  Zeus, 
Thou  wilt  not  care  for  that,  to  let  it 
grieve  thee  ! 
I  know  thee,  fair  one,  why  thou 
springest  loose 
From  my  arm  round  thee.    "Why  ?    I 
tell  thee,  dear  ! 
One    shaggy    eyebrow    draws    its 
smudging  road 
Straight   through    my    ample   front, 
from  ear  to  ear; 
One    eye    rolls    underneath;    and 
yawning,  broad, 
Flat  nostrils  feel  the  bulging  lips  too 

near. 
Yet  .  .  .  ho,    ho  !  —  I,  —  whatever    I 
appear,  — 
Do  feed  a  thousand  oxen  !    "When 
I  have  done, 
I  milk  the  cows,  and  drink  the  milk 
that's  best ! 
I  lack  no    cheese,  while   summer 
keeps  the  sun; 
And  after,  in  the  cold,  it's  ready  prest ! 
And  then,  I  know  to  sing,  as  there 
is  none 
Of  all  the  Cyclops  can,  ...  a  song  of 

thee, 
Sweet  apple  of  my  soul ,  on  love's  fair 

tree. 
And  of  myself  who  love  thee  .  .  .  till 

the  west 
Forgets  the  light,  and  all  but  I  have 
rest. 

507 


608 


TRANSLATIONS. 


I  feed  for  thee,  besides,  eleven  fair 
does, 
And  all  in  fawn;    and  four  tame 
whelps  of  bears. 
Come  to  me,  sweet !  thou  shalt  have 
all  of  those 
In    change    for    love !     I   will    not 
halve  the  shares. 
Leave  the  blue  sea,  with  pure  white 
arms  extended 
To  the  dry  shore;  and,  in  my  cave's 
recess. 
Thou  shalt  be  gladder  for  the  noon- 
light  ended ; 
For  here  be  laurels,  spiral  cypresses, 
Dark  ivy,  and  a  vine  whose  leaves 

infold 
Most    luscious   grapes;    and   here  is 
water  cold. 
The   wooded    .^tna    pours    down 
through  the  trees 
From  the  white  snows,  which  gods 
were  scarce  too  bold 
To  drink  in  turn  with  nectar.     Who 

with  these 
"Would  choose  the  salt  wave  of  the 
lukewarm  seas  ? 
Nay,  look  on  me  !     If  I  am  hairy  and 
rough, 
I  have  an  oak's  heart  in  me;  there's 
a  fire 
In  these  gray  ashes  which  burns  hot 
enough ; 
And,  when  I  burn  tor  thee,  I  grudge 
the  pyre 
No  fuel  .  .  .  not  my  soul,  nor  this  one 

eye,— 
Most  precious  thing  I  have,  because 

thereby 
I  see  thee,   fairest !     Out,  alas !     I 

wish 
My  mother  had  borne  me  flnned  like 

a  fish. 
That  I  might  plunge  down  in    the 
ocean  near  thee, 
And  kiss  thy  glittering  hand   be- 
tween the  weeds, 
If  still  thy  face  were  turned;  and  I 
would  bear  thee 
Each  lily  white,  and  poppy  fair  that 
bleeds 
Its  red  heart  down  its  leaves  !  — one 
gift,  for  hours 
Of  summer,  —  one  for  winter;  since 
to  cheer  thee, 
I  could  not  bring  at  once  all  kinds  of 

flowers. 
Even  now,  girl,  now,  I  fain  would 
learn  to  swim^ 


If  stranger  in  a  ship  sailed  nigh,  1 

wis, 
That  I  may  know  how  sweet  a  thing 
it  is 
To  live  down  with  you  in   the  deep 

and  dim  ! 
Come     up,     O     Galatea,     from     the 
ocean. 
And,  having  come,  forget  again  to 
go  ! 
As  I,  who  sing  out  here  my  heart's 
emotion. 
Could  sit  forever.     Come  up  from 
below  ! 
Come,   keep    my    flocks    beside    me, 
milk  my  kine; 
Come,  press  my  cheese,  distrain  my 
whey  and  curd  ! 
Ah,     mother !     she     alone  .  .  .  that 
mother  of  mine  .  .  . 
Did  wrong  me  sore  !    I  blame  her  ! 
Not  a  word 
Of    kindly   intercession   did    she  ad- 
dress 
Thine  ear  with  for  my  sake;  andne'er- 
theless 
She  saw  me  wasting,  wasting,  day 

by  day: 
Both  head  and  feet  were  aching,  I 
will  say, 
All  sick  for  grief,  as   I   myself  was 
sick. 
O  Cyclops,  Cyclops !   whither  hast 

thou  sent 
Thy  soul  on  fluttering  wings  ?    If 
thou  wert  bent 
On  turning  bowls,  or  pulling  green 
and  thick 
The  sprouts  to  give  thy  lambkins, 

thou  wouldst  make  thee 
A  wiser  Cyclops  than  for  what  we 
take  thee. 
Milk  dry  the  present !    Why  pursue 

too  quick 
That  future  which  is  fugitive  aright  ? 
Thy  Galatea  thovi  shalt  haply  find, 
Or  else  a  maiden  fairer  and  more 
kind; 
For  many  girls  do  call  me   through 
the  night. 
And,  as  they  call,  do  laugh  out  sil- 

verly. 
I,  too,  am  something  in  the  world, 
I  see  !  " 

While    thus    the    Cyclops    love    and 

lambs  did  fold, 
Ease  came  with  song,  he  could  not 

buy  with  gold. 


TRANSLATIONS. 


509 


FROM  APULETUS. 
PSYCHE   GAZING   ON   CUPID. 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  IV.) 

Then  P.syche,  weak  in  body  and  soul, 
put  on 
The    cruelty  of    fate,    in    place    of 
strength : 
She    raised    the    lamp    to    see    what 
should  be  done, 
And  seized  the  steel,  and  was  a  man 
at  length 
In  courage,  though  a  woman  !    Yes, 
but  when 
The  light  fell  on  the  bed  whereby 
she  stood 
To  view  the  "heast"  that  lay  there, 
certes,  then. 
She  saw  the  gentlest,  sweetest  beast 
in  wood,  — 
Even  Cupid's  self,  the  beauteous  god  ! 
more  beauteous 
For  that  sweet  sleep  across  his  eye- 
lids dim. 
The    light    the    lady  carried    as  she 
viewed 
Did  blush  for  pleasure  as  it  lighted 
him, 
The  dagger  trembled  from  its  aim  un- 
duteous : 
And  she  .  .  .oh,  she  —  amazed  and 
soul-distraught. 
And  fainting  in  her  whiteness  like  a 
veil, 
Slid  down  upon    her    knees,   and, 
shuddering,  thought 
To  hide  —  though  in   her  heart  —  the 

dagger  pale  ! 
She  would  have  done  it;  but  her  hands 
did  fail 
To  hold  the  guilty  steel,  they  shiv- 
ered so; 
And  feeble,  exhausted,  unawares  she 

took 
To  gazing  on  the  god,  till,  look  by 
look, 
Her  eyes  with  larger  life  did  fill  and 
glow. 
She  saw  his  golden  head  alight  with 
curls: 
She  might  have  guessed  their  bright- 
ness in  the  dark 
By  that  ambrosial  smell  of  heavenly 
mark  ! 
She  saw  the  milky  brow,  more  pure 
tLan  pearls, 


The  purple  of  the  cheeks,  divinely 
sundered 
By  the  globed  ringlets,  as  they  glided 

free, 
Some  back,  some  forwards,  —  all  so 
radiantly. 
That,  as  she  watched  them  there, 

she  never  wondered 
To    see    the    lamplight,    where    it 
touched  them,  tremble: 
On    the    god's    shoulders,    too,    she 
marked  his  wings 
Shine  faintly  at  the  edges,  and  re- 
semble 
A  flower  that's  near  to  blow.     The 
poet  sings 
And   lover  sighs,  that  love  is  fugi- 
tive; 
And  certes,  though  these  jiinions  lay 
reposing, 
The  feathers  on  them  seemed  to  stir 
and  live 
As  if  by  instinct,  closing  and  unclos- 
ing. 
Meantime  the  god's  fair  body  slum- 
bered deep, 
All  worthy  of  Venus,  in  his  shining 

sleep; 
Wliile  at    the    bed's    foot    lay  the 
quiver,  bow. 
And   darts, — his    arms    of    godhead. 
Psyche  gazed. 
With  eyes  that  drank  the  wonders 
in,  said,  "  Lo, 
Be  these  my  husband's  arms?"  and 
straightway  raised 
An  arrow  from  the  quiver-case,  and 
tried 
Its    point    against    her  finger:    trem- 
bling till 
She  pushed  it  in  too  deeply  (foolish 
bride  !) 
And  made  her  blood  some  dewdrops 

small  distil, 
And  learnt  to  love  Love,  of  her  own 
good  will. 


PSYCHE  WAFTED    BY    ZEPHY- 

RUS. 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  IV.) 

While  Psyche  wept  upon  the  rock, 
forsaken. 
Alone,  despairing,  dreading,  gradu- 
ually 


TRANSLATIONS. 


By  Zephyrus  she  was  inwrapt   and 
taken, 
Still     trembling;,  —  like    the    lilies 
planted  high, — 
Through   all    her    fair    white    limbs. 
Her  vesture  spread, 
Her  very  bosom  eddying  with  sur- 
prise. 
He  drew  her  slowly  from  the  moun- 
tain-head, 
And  bore  her  down  the  valleys  with 
wet  eyes. 
And  laid  her  in  the  lap  of  a  green  dell 
As  soft  with  grass  and  flowers  as 
any  nest. 
With  trees  beside  her,  and  a  limpid 
well: 
Yet  Love  was  not  far  off  from  all  that 
rest. 


PSYCHE  AND  PAN. 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  V.) 

The    gentle    River,    in    her    Cupid's 
honor, 
Because  he  used  to  warm  the  very 
wave. 
Did  ripple  aside,  instead  of  closing  on 
her. 
And  cast  up  Psyche,  with  a  refluence 
brave, 
UiJon  the  flowery  bank,  all  sad  and 

sinning. 
Then  Pan,  the  rural  god,  by  chance 
was  leaning 
Along  the  brow  of  waters  as  thej' 

wound. 
Kissing  the  reed-nymph  till  she  sank 
to  ground 
And  teaching,  without  knowledge  of 
the  meaning, 
To  run  her  voice  in  music  after  his 
Down  many  a  shifting  note  (the  goats 
around. 
In    wandering   pasture    and   most 
leaping  bliss. 
Drawn  on  to  crop  the  river's  flowery 

hair). 
And  as  the    hoary  god    beheld    her 
there. 
The  poor,  worn,   fainting  Psyche  ! 

knowing  all 
The  grief  she  suffered,  he  did  gently 
call 
Her  name,  and  softly  comfort  her  de- 
spair :  — 


"  O  wise,  fair  lady  I  I  am  rough  and 
rude, 
And    yet    experienced    through    my 
weary  age ; 
And  if  I  read  aright,  as  soothsayer 
should. 
Thy  faltering  steps  of  heavy  pilgrim- 
age, 
Thy  paleness,  deep  as  snow  we  can- 
not see 
The    roses    through,  —  thy    sighs    of 

quick  returning, 
Thine  eyes  that  seem  themselves  two 
souls  in  mourning,  — 
Thou  lovest,  girl,  too  well,  and  bit- 
terly ! 
But  hear  me :  rush  no  more  to  a  head- 
long fall : 
Seek  no  more  deaths  !  leave  wail, 
lay  sorrow  down. 
And  pray  the  sovran  god;   and  use 
withal 
Such  prayer  as  best  may  suit  a  ten- 
der youth, 
Well  pleased  to  bend  to  flatteries  from 
thy  mouth, 
And  feel  them  stir  the  myrtle  of  his 
crown." 

—  So  spake  the  shepherd-god;   and 
answer  none 
Gave  Psyche  in  return;  but  silently 
She  did  him  homage  with  a  bended 
knee. 
And  took  the  onward  path. 


PSYCHE  PROPITIATING  CERES. 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

Thex  mother  Ceres  from  afar  beheld 

her, 
While  Psyche,  touched,  with  rever- 
ent fingers  meek. 
The  temple's  scythes;  and  with  a  cry 

compelled  her:  — 
"  O  wretched  Psyche,  Venus  roams 

to  seek 
Thy  wandering  footsteps  round  the 

weary  earth, 
Anxious  and  maddened,  and  adjures 

thee  forth 
To  accept  the  imputed  pang,  and 

let  her  wreak 
Full    vengeance   with    full    force    of 

deity  ! 


TRANSLATIONS. 


511 


Yet  thou,  forsooth,  art  in  my  temple 
here, 
Touching  my  scythes,  assuming  my 
degree, 
And  daring  to  have  thoughts  that  are 
not  fear !  " 
—  But  Psyche  clung  to  her  feet,  and 
as  they  moved 
Rained  tears  along  their  track,  tear 
dropped  on  tear. 
And  drew  the  dust  on  in  her  trailing 
locks, 
And  still,  with  passionate  prayer, 
the  charge  disproved :  — 
"  Now,  by  thy  right  hand's  gathering 

from  the  shocks 
Of  golden  corn,  and  by  thy  gladsome 

rites 
Of  harvest,  and  thy  consecrated  sights 
Shut  safe  and  mute  in  chests,  and  by 

the  course 
Of  thy  slave  dragons,  and  the  driving 

force 
Of  ploughs  along  Sicilian  glebes  pro- 
found, 
By  thy  swift  chariot,  by  thy  stead- 
fast ground, 
By  all  those  nuptial  torches  that  de- 
parted 
With    thy    lost   daughter,   and  by 
those  that  shone 
Back  with  her  when  she  came  again 
glad-hearted, 
And  by  all  other  mysteries  which 
are  done 
In  silence  at  Eleusis,  I  beseech  thee, 
O  Ceres  !  take  some  pity,  and  ab- 
stain 
From  giving  to  my  soul  extremer 
pain 
AVho  am  the  wretched  Psyche.     Let 
me  teach  thee 
A  little  mercy,  and  have  thy  leave 
to  spend 
A  few  days  only  in  thy  garnered  corn. 
Until  that  wrathful  goddess,  at  the 
end, 
Shall  feel   her  hate    grow  mild,  the 

longer  borne; 
Or  till,  alas !    this    faintness    at    my 
breast 
Pass  from,  me,  and  my  spirit  appre- 
hend 
From  lifelong  woe  a  breath-time  hour 

of  rest!" 
—  But  Ceres  answered,  "  I  am  moved 
indeed 
By  prayers  so  moist  with  tears,  and 
would  defend 


The  poor  beseecher  from  more  utter 
need ; 
But  where  old  oaths,  anterior  ties, 

commend, 
I  cannot  fail  to  a  sister,  lie  to  a 
friend. 
As  Venus  is    to    me.     Depart    with 
speed ! " 


PSYCHE  AND  THE  EAGLE. 
(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

But  sovran  Jove's  rapacious  bird,  the 

regal 
High  percher  on  the  lightning,  the 

great  eagle, 
Drove  down  with  rushing  wings;  and 

thinking  how. 
By  Cupid's  help,  he  bore  from  Ida's 

brow 
A  cup-boy  for  his  master,  he  inclined 
To  yield,  in  just  return,  an  influence 

kind; 
The  god  being  honored  in  his  lady's 

woe. 
And  thus  the  Bird  wheeled  downward 

from  the  track 
Gods  follow  gods  in,  to  the  level  low 
Of  that  poor  face  of  Psyche  left  in 

wrack. 
—  "Now  fie,  thou  simple  girl!"  the 

bird  began; 
"  For,  if  thou  think  to  steal  and  carry 

back 
A  drop  of  holiest  stream  that  ever 

ran. 
No  simpler  thought,  methinks,  were 

found  in  man. 
"What !   know'st  thou  not  these  Sty- 
gian waters  be 
Most  holy,  even  to  Jove  ?  that  as,  on 

earth, 
Men  swear  by  gods  and  by  the  thun- 
der's worth. 
Even  so  the  heavenly  gods  do  utter 

forth 
Their  oaths  by  Styx's  flowing  majes- 

ty? 

And  yet  one  little  urnful  I  agree 

To  grant  thy  need  !  "     Whereat,  all 

hastily. 
He  takes  it,  fills  it  from  the  willing 

wave. 
And  bears  it  in  his  beak,  incarnadined 


THAN  SLAT  IONS. 


By  the  last  Titan-prey  he  screamed 

to  have ; 
And,  striking  calmly  out  against  the 

wind 
Vast  wings  on  each  side,  there,  where 

Psyche  stands. 
He  drops  the  urn  down  in  her  lifted 

hands. 


PSYCHE    AND   CERBERUS. 
(Metamobph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

A    MIGHTY  dog  with   three    colossal 
necks, 
And   heads    in    grand    proportion; 
vast  as  fear, 

"With  jaws  that  bark  the  thunder  out 
that  breaks 
In  most  innocuous  dread  for  ghosts 
anear, 

Who  are  safe  in  death  from  sorrow: 
he  reclines 

Across  the  threshold  of  Queen  Pros- 
erpine's 

Dark-sweeping  halls,   and  there,  for 
Pluto's  spouse, 

Doth  guard  the  entrance  of  the  empty 
house. 

When  Psyche  threw  the  cake  to  him, 
once  amain 

He  howled  up  wildly  from   his  hun- 
ger-pain, 

And  was  still  after. 


PSYCHE   AND   PROSERPINE. 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VL) 

Then   Psyche  entered  in  to  Proser- 
pine 

lu  the  dark  house,  and  straightway 
did  decline 

With  meek  denial  the  lu.\urious  seat, 
The  liberal  board  for  \Velcome  stran- 
gers spread, 

But  sate    down    lowly   at    the    dark 
queen's  feet, 
And  told  her  tale,  and  brake  her 
oaten  bread. 

And  when  she  had  given  the  pyx  in 
humble  duty, 


And  told  how  Venus  did  entreat 
the  queen 
To  fill  it  up  with  only  one  day's  beau- 
ty 
She  used  in  Hades,  star-bright  and 
serene. 
To  beautify   the   Cyprian,   who    had 
been 
All  spoilt  with  grief  in  nursing  her 
sick  boy. 
Then  Proserpine,  in  malice  and  in  joy. 
Smiled  in  the  shade,  and  took  the 

pyx.  and  put 
A  secret  in   it;   and  so,  tilled  and 
shut. 
Gave  it  again  to  Psyche.    Could  she 

tell 
It  held  no  beautv  but  a  dream   of 
hell  ? 


PSYCHE  AND  VENUS, 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

And  Psyche  brought  to  Venus  what 
was  sent 

By  Pluto's  spouse;  the  paler,  that 
she  went 

So  low  to  seek  it  down  the  dark  de- 
scent. 


MERCURY  CARRIES  PSYCHE  TO 
OLYMPUS. 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

Then  Jove  commanded  the  god  Mer- 
cury 

To  float  up  Psyche  from  the  earth. 
And  she 

Sprang  at  the  first  word,  as  the  foun- 
tain springs. 

And  shot  up  bright  and  rustling 
through  his  wings. 


MARRIAGE    OF    PSYCHE    AND 
CUPID. 

(Metamorph.,  Lib.  VI.) 

And    Jove's  right  hand  approached 
the  ambrosial  bowl 
To  Psyche's  lips,  that  scarce  dared 
vet  to  smile: 


TRANSLATIONS. 


513 


"  Drink,  O  my  daughter,  and  acquaint 
thy  soul 
"With  deathless  uses,  and  be  glad 
the  while  I 
No  more  shall  Cupid  leave  thy  lovely 
side : 
Thy  marriage-joy  begins  for  never- 
ending." 
"While  yet  he  spake,  tlie  nuptial  feast 
sui^plied, 
The  bridegroom  on  the  festive  couch 
was  bending 
O'er  Psyche  inhis  bosom,. Jove  the  same 

On  Juno,  and  the  other  deities 
Alike  ranged  round.    The  rural  cup- 
boy  came 
And  poured  Jove's  nectar  out  with 
shining  eyes. 
While  Bacchus  for  the  others  did  as 
much, 
And  Vulcan  spread  the  meal;  and 

all  the  Hours 
Made  all  things  purple  with  a  sjirin- 
kle  of  flowers. 
Or  roses  chiefly,  not  to  say  the  touch 
Of    tlieir    sweet    fingers;    and    the 
Graces  glided 
Their  balm  around;   and  the  Miises 
through  the  air 
Struck  out  clear  voices,  which  were 
still  divined 
By  that  divinest  song  Apollo  there 
Intoned  to  his  lute;   while  Ajihro- 
dite  fair 
I>id  float  her  beauty  along  the  tune, 
and  play 
The  notes  right  with  her  feet.    And 
thus  the  day 
Through  every  perfect  mood  of  joy 
was  carried. 
The  Muses  sang  their  chorus ;  Saty- 

rus 
Did  blow  his  jJipes;   Pan  touched 
his  reed:  and  thus 
At  lastwere  Cupidandhis  Psyche  mar- 
ried. 


FROM   NONNUS. 

HOW  BACCHUS  FINDS  ARIAD- 
NE  SLEEPING. 

(DiONTSIACA,  Lib.  XLVII.) 

When  Bacchus  first  beheld  the  deso- 
late 

And  sleeping  Ariadne,  wonder 
straight 


Was  mixed  with  love   in  his   great 

golden  eyes; 
He  turned  to  his  Bacchantes  in  sur- 
prise, 
And  said  with  guarded  voice,  "  Hush! 

strike  no  more 
Your  brazen  cymbals;  keep  those 

voices  still 
Of    voice    and    pipe;    and,    since    ye 

stand  before 
Queen   Cypris,  let  her  slumber  as 

she  will ! 
And  yet  the  cestus   is  not    here    in 

proof. 
A  Grace,   perhaps,  whom   sleep  has 

stolen  aloof: 
In  which  case,  as  the  morning  shines 

in  view, 
"Wake  this  Aglaia  !  —  yet  in    Naxos, 

who 
Would  veil  a  Grace  so  ?  Hush  !    And 

if  that  she 
"Were  Hebe,  which  of  all  the  gods  can 

be 
The  pourer  out  of  wine  ?    or  if  we 

think 
She's  like  the  shining  moon  by  ocean's 

brink, 
The  guide  of  herds,  why,  could  she 

sleep  without 
Endymion's  breath  on  her  cheek  ?  or 

if  I  doubt 
Of  silver-footed  Thetis,  used  to  tread 
These  shores,  even  she  (in  reverence 

be  it  said) 
Has  no  such  rosy  beauty  to  dress  deep 
With  the  blue  waves'    The  Loxian 

goddess  might 
Repose  so  from    her  hunting    toil 

aright 
Beside  the  sea,  since  toil  gives  birth 

to  sleep; 
But  who  would  find  her  with  her 

tunic  loose. 
Thus  ?    Stand  off,   Thracian  !    stand 

off !    Do  not  leap. 
Not  this  way  !     Leave  that  piping, 

since  I  choose, 
O  dearest  Pan,  and  let  Athene  rest ! 
And  yet  if  she  be   Pallas  .  .  .  truly 

guessed  .  .  . 
Her  lance  is  —  where  ?  her  helm  and 

aegis  —  where  ?  " 
—  As  Bacchus  closed,  the  miserable 

Fair 
Awoke  at  last,  sprang  upward  from 

the  sands. 
And    gazing    wild    on    that    wild 

throng  that  stands 


514 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Around,  around  her,  and  no  Theseus 

there  !  — 
Her  voice  went  moaning  over  shore 

and  sea, 
Beside  the  halcyon's  cry;  she  called 

her  love; 
She  named  her  hero,  and  raged  mad- 
deningly 
Against  the  brine   of  waters;   and 

above. 
Sought  the  ship's  track,  and  cursed 

the  hours  she  slept; 
And    still    the    chiefest     execration 

swept 
Against  Queen  Paphia,  mother  of  the 

ocean; 
And  cursed  and  prayed  by  times  in 

her  emotion 
The  winds  all  round.  .  .  . 

Her  grief  did  make  her  glorious ;  her 

despair 
Adorned  her  with  its  weight.    Poor 

wailing  child ! 
She  looked  like  Venus  when  the 

goddess  smiled 
At  liberty  of  godship,  debonair: 
Poor  Ariadne  !  and  her  eyelids  fair 
Hid  looks  beneath  them  lent  her  by 

persuasion 
And  every  grace,  with  tears  of  love's 

own  i^assion. 
She    wept    long;    then    she    spake: 

"  Sweet  sleep  did  come 
While  sweetest  Theseus  went.    Oh, 

glad  and  dumb, 
I  wish  he  had  left  me  still  !  for  in  my 

sleep 
I  saw  his    Athens,   and    did    gladly 

keep 
My  new  bride-state  within  my  The- 
seus' hall; 
And  heard  the  pomp  of  Hymen,  and 

the  call 
Of  '  Ariadne,  Ariadne,'  sung 
In  choral  joy;   and  there  with  joy  I 

hung 
Spring-blossoms  round  love's  altar  ! 

ay,  and  wore 
A  wreath  myself;  and  felt  him  ever- 
more, 
Oh,   evermore    beside    me,   with   his 

mighty, 
Grave  head  bowed  down  in  prayer  to 

Aphrodite  ! 
Why,  what  a  sweet,  sweet  dream  ! 

He  went  with  it. 
And  left  me  here  unwedded  where  I 

sitl 


Persuasion  help  me  !     The  dark  night 

did  make  me 
A  brideship  the  fair  morning  takes 

away; 
My  love  had  left  me  when  the  hour 

did  wake  me ; 
And  while  I  dreamed  of  marriage, 

as  I  say, 
And  blest  it  well,  my  blessed  Theseus 

left  me; 
And  thus  the  sleep  I  loved  so  has  be- 
reft me. 
Speak  to  me,  rocks,  and  tell  thy  grief 

to-day 
Who  stole  my  love  of  Athens."  .  .  . 


HOW    BACCHUS    COMFORTS 
ARIADNE. 

(DiONTSiACA.,  Lib.  XLVn.) 

Then  Bacchus'  subtle  speech  her  sor- 
row crossed : 

"  O  maiden,  dost  thou  mourn  for  hav- 
ing lost 

The  false  Athenian  heart  ?  and  dost 
thou  still 

Take  thought  of  Theseus,  when  tliou 
mayst  at  will 

Have  Bacchus  for  a  husband  ?    Bac- 
chus bright  I 
A  god  in  place  of  mortal !    Yes,  and 
though 

The  mortal  youth  be  charming  in  thy 
sight. 
That  man  of  Athens  cannot  strive 
below, 

In  beauty  and  valor,  with  my  deity  1 
Thou'lt  tell  me  of  the  labyrinthine 
dweller. 

The  fierce  man-bull  he  slew:  I  pray 
thee,  be. 
Fair  Ariadne,  the  true  deed's  true 
teller, 

And  mention  thy  clew's    help !    be- 
cause, forsooth, 
Thine  armed  Athenian    hero    had 

not  found 
A  power  to  fight  on  that  prodigious 
ground, 

Unless  a  lady  in  her  rosy  youth 

Had  lingered  near  him;  not  to  speak 
the  truth 

Too  definitely  out  till  names  be  known 

Like  Paphia's,  Love's,  and  Ariadne's 
own, 


T  RAN  SLA  TIONS. 


515 


Thou  wilt  not  say  that  Athens  can 
compare 
"With  ^ther,  nor  that  Minos  rules 
like  Zeus, 
Nor  yet  that  Gnossus  has  such  golden 
air 
As  high  Olympus.    Ha  !   for  noble 
use 
We  came  to  Naxos  !    Love  has  well 

intended 
To  change  thy  bridegroom  !    Happy 

thou,  defended 
From  entering  in  thy  Theseus'  earth- 
ly hall, 
That  thou  mayst  hear  the   laughters 
rise  and  fall 
Instead,  where  Bacchus  rules  I    Or 
wilt  thou  choose 
A    still-surpassing    glory?  —  take    it 

all,— 
A  heavenly  house,  Kronion's  self  for 

kin,  — 
A  place  where  Cassiopea  sits  within 
Inferior  light,  for  all  her  daughter's 

sake. 
Since   Perseus,  even  amid  the  stars, 

must  take 
Andromeda  in  chains  ethereal ! 
But  I  will  wreathe  thee,  sweet,  an  as- 
tral crown. 
And  as  my  queen   and  spouse  thou 

shalt  be  known; 
Mine,  the  crown-lover's  !  "     Thus,  at 

length,  he  j^roved 
His  comfort  on  her;  and  the  maid  was 

moved; 
And,  casting  Theseus'  memory  down 

the  brine, 
She  straight  received  the  troth  of  her 

divine. 
Fair  Bacchus;  Love  stood  by  to  close 

the  rite. 
The  marriage-chorus  struck  up  clear 

and  light, 
Flowers    sprouted    fast    about     the 

chamber  green. 
And  with    spring-garlands    on  their 

heads,  I  ween, 
The      Orchomenian     dancers     came 

along. 
And  danced  their  rounds  in  Naxos  to 

the  song. 
A  Hamadryad  sang  a  nuptial  dit 
Right  shrilly;  and  a  Naiad  sat  be- 
side 
A  fountain,  with  her  bare  foot  shelv- 
ing it. 
And  hymned  of  Ariadne,  beauteous 
bride, 


Whom  thus  the  god  of  grapes  had 

deified. 
Ortygia  sang  out,   louder    than    her 

wont, 
An  ode  which  Phoebus  gave  her  to 

be  tried, 
And  leapt  in  chorus,  with  her  stead- 
fast front, 
"While  prophet  Love,  the  stars  have 

called  a  brother, 
Burnt  in  his  crown,  and  twined  in  one 

another 
His  love-tiower  with  the  purple  roses, 

given 
In  type  of  that  new  crown  assigned 

in  heaven. 


FROM   HESIOD. 
BACCHUS  AND  ARIADNE. 

(Theog.  947.) 

The   golden-haired  Bacchus  did  es- 
pouse 
That  fairest  Ariadne,  Minos'  daugh- 
ter, 

And  made  her  wifehood  blossom  in 
the  house, 
"Where  such  protective  gifts  Kronion 
brought  her. 

Nor  Death  nor  Age  could  find  her 
when  they  sought  her. 


FROM   EURIPIDES. 
AURORA   AND  TITHONUS. 

(Tboades,  Antistrophe,  853.) 

Love,  Love,  who  once  didst  pass  the 
Dardan  portals. 
Because  of  heavenly  passion  ! 
Who  once  didst  lift  up  Troy  in  exulta- 
tion. 
To  mingle  in  thy  bond  the  high  im- 
mortals ! 
Love,  turned  from  his  own  name 
To  Zeus'  shame. 
Can  help  no  more  at  all. 
And  Eos'  self,  the  fair,  white-steeded 

morning,  — 
Her  light  which  blesses  other  lands, 
returning, 


516 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Has  changed  to  a  gloomy  pall ! 
She  looked  across  the  land  with  eyes 

of  amber; 
She  saw  the  city's  fall; 
She  who,  in  pure  embraces, 
Had   held   there,   in    the    hymeneal 

chamber, 
Her  children's  father,  bright  Tithonus 

old. 
Whom   the   four  steeds   with    starry 

brows  and  paces 
Bore  on,  snatched  upward,  on  the  car 

of  gold. 
And  with  him,  all  the  land's  full  hope 

of  joy  ! 
The  love-charms  of  the  gods  are  vain 

for  "Troy. 

Note.  —  Rendered    after    Mr.    Burges's 
reading,  in  some  respects,  not  quite  all. 


FROM   HOMER. 
HECTOR  AND  ANDROMACHE. 

([LiAD,  Lib.  VI.) 

She  rushed  to  meet  him:  the  nurse 
following 

Bore  on  her  bosom  the  unsaddened 
child, 

A  simple  babe,  prince  Hector's  well- 
loved  son. 

Like  a  star  shining  when  the  world  is 
dark. 

Scamandrius,  Hector  called  him;  but 
the  rest 

Named  him  Astyanax,  the  city's 
prince. 

Because  that  Hector  only,  had  saved 
Troy. 

He,  when  he  saw  his  son,  smiled  si- 
lently; 

While,  dropping  tears,  Andromache 
pressed  on, 

And  clung  to  his  hand,  and  spake, 
and  named  his  name. 

"  Hector,   my   best    one,  thine    own 

nobleness 
Must    needs    undo    thee.     Pity  hast 

thou  none 
For  this  young  child  and   this  most 

sad  myself. 
Who  soon  shall  be  thy  widow,  since 

that  soon 


The  Greeks  will  slay  thee  in  the  gen- 
eral rush ; 

And  then,  for  me,  what  refuge,  'reft 
of  thee. 

But  to  go  graveward  ?  Then,  no  com- 
fort more 

Sliall  touch  me,  as  in  the  old  sad 
times  thou  know'st. 

Grief  only  —  grief  !  I  have  no  father 
now, 

No  mother  mild.  Achilles  the  di- 
vine. 

He  slew  my  father,  sacked  his  lofty 
Thebes, 

Cilicia's  populous  city,  and  slew  its 
king, 

Eetion  —  father  !  —  did  not  spoil  the 
corse. 

Because  the  Greek  revered  him  in  his 
soul, 

But  burnt  the  body  with  its  d?edal 
arms. 

And  poured  the  dust  out  gently. 
Round  that  tomb 

The  Oreads,  daughters  of  the  goat- 
nursed  Zeus, 

Tripped  in  a  ring,  and  planted  their 
green  elms. 

There  were  seven  brothers  with  me 
in  the  house. 

Who  all  went  down  to  Hades  in  one 
day, — 

For  he  slew  all,  Achilles  the  divine, 

Famed  for  his  swift  feet,  —  .slain 
among  their  herds 

Of  cloven-footed  bulls  and  Hocking 
sheep ! 

My  mother  too,  who  queened  it  o'er 
the  woods 

Of  Hippoplacia,  he,  with  other 
spoil, 

Seized,  —  and,  for  golden  ran.som, 
freed  too  late,  — 

Since,  as  slie  went  home,  arrowy  Ar- 
temis 

Met  her  and  slew  her  at  my  father's 
door. 

But  —  O  my  Hector,  —  thou  art  still 
to  me 

Father  and  mother!  —  yes,  and  brother 
dear, 

O  thou,  who  art  my  sweetest  spouse 
beside  ! 

Come  now,  and  take  me  into  pitv ! 
Stay 

I'  the  town  here  with  us  !  Do  not 
make  thy  child 

An  orphan,  nor  a  widow  thy  pooi 
wife  ' 


^K*H 


TRANSLATIONS. 


51' 


Call  up  the  people   to    the    fig-tree, 

where 
The     city     is  most     accessible,     the 

wall 
Most    easy    of    assault !  —  for    thrice 

thereby 
The  boldest  Greeks  have  mounted  to 

the  l)reach,— 
Both  Ajaxes,  the  famed  Idomeneus, 
Two  sons  of  Atreus,  and  the  noble 

one 
Of  Tydeus,  —  whether  taught  by  some 

wise  seer. 
Or  by  their  own  souls  prompted  and 

inspired." 

Great  Hector  answered:  "Lady,  for 
these  things 

It  is  my  part  to  care.  And  /  fear 
most 

My  Trojans,  and  their  daughters,  and 
their  wives, 

Who  through  their  long  veils  would 
glance  scorn  at  me 

If,  coward-like,  I  sluinned  the  open 
war. 

Nor  doth  my  own  soul  prompt  me  to 
that  end  ! 

I  learnt  to  be  a  brave  man  constantly. 

And  to  fight  foremost  where  my  Tro- 
jans fight, 

And  vindicate  my  father's  glory  and 
mine  — 

Because  I  know,  by  instinct  and  my 
soul, 

The  day  comes  that  our  sacred  Troy 
must  fall, 

And  Priam  and  his  people.  Knowing 
which, 

I  have  no  such  grief  for  all  my  Tro- 
jans' sake. 

For  Hecuba's,  for  Priam's,  our  old 
king. 

Not  for  my  brothers',  who  so  many 
and  brave 

Shall  bite  the  dust  before  our  ene- 
mies, — 

As,  sweet,  for  thee!  —  to  think  some 
mailed  Greek 

Shall  lead  thee  weeping  and  deprive 
thy  life 

Of  the  free  sun-sight  —  that  when 
gone  away 

To  Argos,  thou  shalt  throw  the  dis- 
taff there, 

Not  for  thy  uses  —  or  shalt  carry  in- 
stead 

Upon  thy  loathing  brow,  as  heavy  as 
doom, 


The  water  of  Greek  wells  —  Messeis' 

own, 
Or  Hyperea's  !  —  that  some  stander- 

by, 
Marking  my  tears  fall,  shall  say, '  This 

is  she. 
The  wife  of  that  same  Hector  who 

fought  best 
Of  all  the  Trojans,  when  all  fought 

for  Troy '  — 
Ay  !  —  and,  so  speaking,  shall  renew 

thy  pang 
That,   'reft  of    him  so   named,   thou 

shouldst  survive 
To  a  slave's  life !     But  earth    shall 

hide  my  corse 
Ere    that    shriek    sound,    wherewith 

thou  art  dragged  from  Troy." 

Thus  Hector  spake,  and  stretched  his 
arms  to  his  child. 

Against  the  nurse's  breast,  with  child- 
ly cry, 

The  boy  clung  back,  and  shunned  his 
father's  face. 

And  feared  the  glittering  brass  and 
waving  hair 

Of  the  high  helmet,  nodding  horror 
down. 

The  father  smiled,  the  mother  could 
not  choose 

But  smile  too.  Then  he  lifted  from 
his  brow 

The  helm,  and  set  it  on  the  ground  to 
shine: 

Then  kissed  his  dear  child  —  raised 
him  with  both  arms. 

And  thus  invoked  Zeus  and  the  gen- 
eral gods :  — 

"  Zeus,  and  all  godships  !  grant  this 
boy  of  mine 

To  be  the  Trojans'  help,  as  I  my- 
self, — 

To  live  a  brave  life  and  rule  well  in 
Troy  ! 

Till  men  shall  say,  '  The  son  exceeds 
the  sire 

By  a  far  glory.'  Let  him  bring  home 
spoil 

Heroic,  and  make  glad  his  mother's 
heart." 

With  which  prayer,  to  his  wife's  ex- 
tended arms 

He  gave  the  child;  and  she  received 
him  straight 

To  her  bosom's  fragrance  —  smiling  up 
her  tears. 


I 


518 


TRANSLATIONS. 


Hector  gazed  on  her  till  his  soul  was 
moved ; 

Then  softly  touched  her  with  his  hand 
and  spake : 

"  My  best  one  —  'ware  of  jiassion  and 
excess 

In  any  fear.  There's  no  man  in  the 
world 

Can  send  me  to  the  grave  apart  from 
fate, — 

And  no  man  .  .  .  sweet,  I  tell  thee 
.  .  .  can  fly  fate,  — 

No  good  nor  bad'  man.  Doom  is  self- 
fulfilled. 

But  now,  go  home,  and  ply  thy  wo- 
man's task 

Of  wheel  and  distaff !  bid  thy  maidens 
haste 

Their  occupation.  "War's  a  care  for 
men  — 

For  all  men  born  in  Troy,  and  chief 
for  me." 

Thus  spake  the  noble  Hector,  and  re- 
sumed 

His  crested  helmet,  while  his  spouse 
went  home; 

But  as  she  went,  still  looked  back 
lovingly, 

Dropping  the  tears  from  her  reverted 
face. 


THE    DAUGHTERS    OF  PANDA- 
RUS. 

(Odtss.,  Lib.  XX.) 

And  so  these  daughters  fair  of  Pan- 

darus. 
The  whirlwinds  took.    The  gods  had 

slain  their  kin: 
They    were    left    orphans    in    their 

father's  house. 
And  Aphrodite  came  to  comfort  them 
With    incense,   luscious    honey,   and 

fragrant  wine; 
And  Her&  gave  them  beauty  of  face 

and  soul 
Beyond  all  women ;  purest  Artemis 
Endowed  them  with  her  stature  and 

white  grace; 
And  Pallas  taught  their  hands  to  flash 

along 
Her    famous    looms.     Then,    bright 

with  deity. 
Toward  far  Olympus,  Aphrodite  went 


To  ask  of  Zeus  (who  has  his  thunder- 
joys 

And  his  full  knowledge  of  man's 
mingled  fate) 

How  best  to  crown  those  other  gifts 
with  love 

And  worthy  marriage:  but,  what  time 
she  went. 

The  ravishing  Harpies  snatched  the 
maids  away. 

And  gave  them  up,  for  all  their  loving 
eyes. 

To  serve  the  Furies  who  hate  con- 
stantly. 


ANOTHER  VERSION. 

So  the  storms  bore  the  daughters  of 
Pandarus  out  into  thrall  — 

The  gods  slew  their  parents;  the  or- 
phans were  left  in  the  hall. 

And  there,  came,  to  feed  their  young 
lives.  Aphrodite  divine, 

With  the  incense,  the  sweet-tasting 
honey,  the  sweet-smelling  wine; 
brought  them  her  wit  above 
woman's,  and  beauty  of  face; 
pure  Artemis  gave  them  her 
stature,  that  form  might  have 
grace ; 

Athene  instructed  their  hands 
in  her  works  of  renown; 

Then,  afar  to  Olympus,  divine  Aphro- 
dite moved  on : 

To  complete  other  gifts,  by  uniting 
each  girl  to  a  mate. 

She  sought  Zeus,  who  has  joy  in  the 
thunder  and  knowledge  of  fate. 

Whether  mortals  have  good  chance 
or  ill.    But  the  Harjjies  alate 

In  the  storm  came,  and  swept  off  the 
maidens,  and  gave  them  to  wait, 

With  that  love  in  their  eyes,  on  the 
Furies  who  constantly  hate. 


Here 
And 


And 


FROM   ANACREON. 

ODE  TO  THE   SWALLOW. 

Thou  indeed,  little  swallow, 
A  sweet  yearly  comer. 
Art  building  a  hollow 
New  nest  every  summer, 
And  straight  dost  depart 
Where  no  gazing  can  follow, 


TRANSLATIONS. 


519 


Past  Memphis,  down  Nile  ! 
All !  but  love  all  the  while 
Builds  his  nest  in  my  heart, 
Through  the  cold  winter  weeks: 
And  as  one  love  takes  flight, 
Comes  another,  O  swallow, 
In  an  egg  warm  and  white, 
And  another  is  callow. 
And  the  large  gaping  beaks 
Chirp  all  day  and  all  night: 
And  the  loves  who  are  older 
Help  the  young  and  the  poor  loves. 
And  the  young  loves  grown  bolder 
Increase  by  the  score  loves  — 
Why,  what  can  be  done  ? 
If  a  noise  comes  from  one 
Can  I  bear  all  this  rout  of  a  hundred 
and  more  loves  ? 


FROM   HEINE. 

[THE  LAST  TRANSLATION".] 

ROME,  1860. 

I. 


Out  of  my  own  great  woe 

I  make  my  little  songs. 

Which  rustle  their  feathers  in  throngs. 

And  beat  on  her  heart  even  so. 

II. 

They  found  the  way,  for  their  part, 
Yet  come  again,  and  complain, 
Complain,  and  are  not  fain 
To  say  what  they  saw  in  her  heart. 


II. 


Art  thou  indeed  so  adverse  ? 
Art  thou  so  changed  indeed  ? 
Against  the  woman  who  wrongs  me, 
I  cry  to  the  world  in  my  need. 

II. 

O  recreant  lips  unthankful, 

How  could  ye  speak  evil,  say. 

Of  the  man  who  so  well  has  kissed 

you 
On  many  a  fortunate  day  ? 


III. 

I. 

My  child,  we  were  two  children, 
Small,  merry  by  childhood's  law: 
We  used  to  crawl  to  the  hen-house. 
And  hide  ourselves  in  the  straw. 


II. 

We  crowed  like  cocks;  and  whenever 
The  passers  near  us  drew  — 
Cock-a-doodle  !  they  thought 
'Twas  a  real  cock  that  crew. 


III. 

The  boxes  about  our  courtyard 
We  carpeted  to  our  mind. 
And  lived  there  both  together,  — 
Kept  house  in  a  noble  kind. 

IV. 

The  neighbor's  old  cat  often 
Came  to  pay  us  a  visit : 
We  made  her  a  bow  and  courtesy, 
Each  with  a  compliment  in  it. 


After  her  health  we  asked. 
Our  care  and  regard  to  evince  — 
(We     have     made    the    very    same 

speeches 
To  many  an  old  cat  since). 


VI. 

We  also  sate  and  wisely 
Discoursed,  as  old  folks  do. 
Complaining  how  all  went  better 
In  those  good  times  we  knew,  — 


vn. 

How  love  and  truth  and  believing 
Had  left  the  world  to  itself, 
And  how  so  dear  was  the  coffee, 
And  how  so  rare  was  the  pelf. 


VIII. 

The  children's  games  are  over, 
The  rest  is  over  with  youth,  — 
The  world,  the  good  games,  the  good 

times, 
The  belief,  and   the    love,  and    the 

truth. 


( 


520 


TRANSLATIONS. 


IV. 


Thou  lovest  me  not,  thou  lovest  me 
not ! 
'Tis  scarcely  worth  a  sigh: 
"Let  me  look  in  thy  face,  and  no  king 
in  his  place 
Is  a  gladder  man  than  I. 

II. 

Thou  hatest  me  well,  thou  hatest  me 
well  — 
Thy  little  red  mouth  has  told: 
Let  it  reach  me  a  kiss,  and,  however 
it  is, 
My  child,  I  am  well  consoled. 


My  own  sweet  love,   if  thou   in   the 
grave, 
The  darksome  grave,  wilt  be, 
Then  will  I  go  down  by  the  side,  and 
crave 
Love-room  for  thee  and  me. 

II. 

I  kiss  and  caress  and  press  thee  wild, 
Thou  still,  thou  cold,  thou  white  ! 

I  wail,  I  tremble,  and  weeping  mild, 
Turn  to  a  corpse  at  the  right. 


in. 

The    dead    Piand    up,    the    midnight 
calls. 
They  dance  in  airy  swarms  — 
We  two  keep  still  where  the  grave- 
shade  falls. 
And  I  lie  on  in  thine  arms. 


IV. 

The  dead  stand  up,  the  Judgment- 
day 
Bids  such  to  weal  or  woe  — 
But  nought  shall  trouble  us  where  we 
stay 
Embraced  and  embracing  below. 


VI. 

I. 

Thk  years  they  come  and  go, 
Tlie  races  drop  in  the  grave. 
Yet  never  the  love  doth  so. 
Which  here  in  my  heart  I  have. 


Could  I  see  thee  but  once,  one  day , 
And  sink  down  so  on  my  knee. 
And  die  in  thy  sight  while  I  say, 
"  Lady,  I  love  but  thee  !  " 


V 


V-  i  &  «  >, 

or  rue 


14  D^1^^^?HBOBRO'5PED 

*■          .!;.as.dates.a»pedbe.o''."' 
Renewed  books  «esub^^l^ -- 

Received  BY 


teVgl* 


?n  8  1962    \ 


%097slO)476B 


4» 


